BLVM 
ENTH 

EX    A  I     LIB 
88  A.   ^  RIS 


/o. 


THE   RUINED   ABBEYS   OF   GREAT   BRITAIN 


THE 

RUINED    ABBEYS    OF 
GREAT   BRITAIN 


BY 

RALPH  ADAMS  CRAM 

F.A.I.A.,  F.R.G.S. 
Author  of  "  Church  Building,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK 

Cljurcfmtan  Co. 

1905 


SU 

0*1 


FOREWORD 

["HUMBLY  crave  leave,  before  I  advance 
I  any  farther,  publickly  to  profess  myself  to 
Abe  a  sincere,  though  very  unworthy  Mem- 
ber of  the  Church  of  England,  and  that  I  have 
as  true  and  as  hearty  Affection  for  her  Interest 
as  perhaps  any  other  Person  whatsoever.  And 
yet  I  cannot  but  here  publickly  declare  that  I 
think  it  would  have  been  more  happy  for  Her, 
as  well  as  for  the  Nation  in  general  had  King 
Henry  VIII.  only  reformed  and  not  destroyed 
the  Abbeys  and  other  Religious  Houses.  Mo- 
nastic Institution  is  very  ancient,  and  it  had  been 
very  laudable  had  he  reduced  the  Manner  of 
Worship  to  the  Primitive  Form." 

From  the  preface  to  Dugdale's  Monasticon  edition  of  1718. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

LIST   OF  ILLUSTRATIONS  xi 

I      INTRODUCTION  1 

II      QLASTONBURY  27 

III  LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBT  48 

IV  BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY  72 
V      TINTERN  94 

VI      GISBURGH  AND    BOLTON  113 

VII      JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO  132 

VIII      RIEVAULX  AND    BYLAND  153 

IX      MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH  171 

X      KIRKSTALL  192 

xi    ST.  MARY'S  YORK  209 

XH      MALMESBURY  229 

XIII      OUR  LADY  OF  THE  FOUNTAINS  247 

xrv    CONCLUSION  271 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FOUNTAINS  ABBEY  Frontispiece 

FACING  PAGE 

GLASTONBURY  —  DOORWAY  OF  ST.  JOSEPH'S  CHAPEL  1 

NETLEY  5 

FOUNTAINS  —  JOHN  OF  KENT'S  "NINE  ALTAKS"  12 

WHITBY  16 

GLASTONBURY 

THE  SOUTH  CHOIR  AISLE  27 

THE  RUINS  FROM  THE  EAST  83 

ST.  JOHN'S  TOWER  FROM  THE  RUINS  37 

THE  WEST  DOOR  OF  THE  GREAT  CHURCH  40 

A  TRANSEPT  CHAPEL  40 

THE  ABBOT'S  KITCHEN  44 

LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

WHITBT  —  FROM  THE  SITE  OF  THE  MONKS'  GRAVEYARD  48 

WHITBY  ABBEY  FROM  OVER  THE  MONKS*  FISH  POND  53 

WHITBY  —  WHERE  THE  WINDS  HAVE  GNAWED  AT  WILL  56 

WHITBY  —  THE  GHOST  OF  GREATNESS  60 

LINDISFARNE  —  THE  NAVE,  LOOKING  WEST  65 

LINDISFARNE  —  THE  NORTH  AISLE  65 

LINDISFARNE  —  VIEW  OF  THE  ABBEY  FROM  THE  WEST  69 

BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

NETLEY  —  EN  THE  CLOISTERS  72 

NETLEY  —  THE  MONKS'  GARDEN  76 

NETLEY  —  THE  MONKS'  DOOR  TO  THE  CHURCH  80 

NETLEY  85 

BEAULIEU  —  THE  CLOISTER  GARTH  92 

BEAULIEU  —  THE  CHAPTER  HOUSE  PORTAL  92 


[xi] 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

TINTERN  PACING  PAGE 

TINTERN  ABBEY  —  THE  CROSSING  97 

TINTERN  ABBET  —  FROM  THE  RIVER  WYE  101 

TINTERN  ABBEY  —  THE  WEST  FRONT  104 
TINTERN  ABBEY  —  THE  NORTH  TRANSEPT  AND  CLOISTER  GARTH   108 

TINTERN  ABBEY  —  THE  INTERIOR,  LOOKING  EAST  112 

GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

GISBURGH  ABBEY  FROM  THE  GARDEN  117 

GISBURGH  ABBEY  —  A  RUINED  SANCTUARY  120 

BOLTON  ABBEY  —  PRIOR  MOON'S  UNFINISHED  TOWER  124 
BOLTON  ABBEY  —  FROM  THE  SITE  OF  THE  PRIOR'S  LODGINGS          129 

JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

JEDBURGH  ABBEY  —  THE  WRECK  OF  GLORY  133 

JEDBURGH  ABBEY  AS  SEEN  FROM  THE  RIVER  136 

THE  WEST  FRONT  OF  JEDBURGH  ABBEY  140 

JEDBURGH  ABBEY  —  THE  CLOISTER  DOOR  144 

KELSO  ABBEY  —  A  FEUDAL  SANCTUARY  149 

IN  THE  CLOISTER  —  GARTH  OF  KELSO  152 

RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

RIEVAULX  ABBEY'  156 

RIEVAULX  —  THE  MONKS'  VALLEY  161 

RIEVAULX  —  A  THIRTEENTH-CENTURY  MASTERPIECE  165 

ALL  THAT  IS  LEFT  OF  PROUD  BYLAND    •  168 

MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

WEST  DOOR  OF  DRYBURGH  172 

DRYBURGH  ABBEY  176 

UNDER  THE  TOWER  OF  MELROSE  181 

MELROSE  —  THE  TRAIL  OF  THE  ENGLISH  ABMY  184 

MELROSE  ABBEY  188 

KIRKSTALL 

IN  THE  CHAPTER  HOUSE  193 

KIRKSTALL  BEFORE  ITS  RESTORATION  197 

KIRKSTALL  ABBEY  200 

KIRKSTALL  FROM  THE  RIVER  BANK  204 

KIRKSTALL  ABBEY  208 


[xii] 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 

ST.  MARY'S,  YORK  FACING  PAGE 

YORK  —  THE  HIGH  TIDE  OF  CHRISTIAN  ART  213 

YORK  —  THE  LAST  OF  THE  TOWER  PIERS  216 

YORK  —  THE  WEST  FRONT  220 

MALMESBURY 

MALMESBURY  —  THE  NORMAN  DOOR  225 

MALMESBURY  —  THE  SHATTERED  NAVE  229 

MALMESBURY  ABBEY  236 
MALMESBURY  —  THE  NAVE  THAT  OLIVER  CROMWELL  WRECKED  240 

FOUNTAINS 

FOUNTAINS  —  THE  UNDERCROFT  245 

FOUNTAINS  —  THE  SIXTEENTH-CENTURY  TOWER  248 

FOUNTAINS  —  THE  CHOIR  252 

FOUNTAINS  —  WITHIN  THE  CLOISTER-GARTH  257 

FOUNTAINS  —  THE  SHARDS  OF  MAJESTY  261 

FOUNTAINS  —  NAVE  LOOKING  FAST  268 

MELROSE 

MELROSE  —  A  GLIMPSE  OF  THE  PRESBYTERIAN  WALL  272 


Glastonbury — Doorway  of   St.   Joseph's  Chapel. 


INTRODUCTION 

TO  the  monks  England  owed  her  con- 
version, and  to  them,  in  large  measure, 
her  civilization.  For  a  thousand  years 
monasticism  flourished  within  her  borders,  suffer- 
ing sometimes  from  failure,  more  often  and  more 
grievously  from  uncontrolled  success,  majestic 
always,  and  beneficent,  though  not  always  after 
the  same  model.  In  five  years  the  material  fabric 
was  annihilated,  but  its  memory  remains,  and 
will  endure  forever;  this  alone  persecution  was 
powerless  to  destroy. 

It  is  hard  for  us  of  the  twentieth  century  to 
form  an  adequate  idea  of  the  enormous  propor- 
tions of  English  monasticism  during  the  Middle 
Ages,  or  of  the  position  it  occupied  in  the  life 
and  economy  of  the  times.  We  have  been 
taught  (as  we  have  inherited  the  implicit  belief) 
that,  however  pure  it  may  have  been  in  some 
mythical,  far-off  time,  monasticism  at  the  acces- 
sion of  Henry  VIII.  had  degenerated  into  a 
poisonous  canker  in  the  body  politic,  richly 
meriting  the  sudden  and  terrible  fate  that  then 


INTRODUCTION 

befell;  or,  at  the  best,  "whatever  benefits  the 
monks  had  conferred  upon  mankind,  and  these 
were  neither  few  nor  slight,  they  had  become 
fetters  on  the  advancement  of  freedom,  educa- 
tion and  true  religion.  .  .  .  They  were  the  un- 
yielding advocates  of  an  ideal  that  was  passing 
away.  ...  It  was  unfortunate  that  they  had 
thrown  themselves  down  before  the  car  of  pro- 
gress, but  there  they  were,  they  would  not  get 
up,  the  car  must  roll  on,  for  so  God  Himself 
had  decided,  and  hence  they  were  crushed  in 
its  advance."* 

We  have  come  to  regret,  as  amateurs,  the 
unfortunate  destruction  of  noble  buildings,  price- 
less books,  and  wonderful  works  of  art,  even 
feeling  disposed  at  times  to  deplore  the  somewhat 
violent  and  sweeping  measures  of  the  Tudor 
king  and  his  agents.  That  English  monasticism 
was  in  its  essential  character  no  more  deserving 
of  destruction  in  the  years  1536-40  than  at  any 
other  time  during  its  life  of  a  thousand  years, 
and  that  anything  suffered  except  art,  are 
thoughts  that  seldom  suggest  themselves. 

We  look  on  the  monastic  system  as  on  a  special 
and  peculiar  form  of  religious  enthusiasm  and 
activity,  the  existence  or  extinction  of  which 
could  have  a  bearing  only  on  spiritual  affairs; 

*Prof.  A.  W.  Wishart:  "A  Short  History  of  Monks  and  Monasteries." 

[2] 


INTRODUCTION 

we  quite  fail  to  understand  that  it  was  a  power 
in  society  rivalling  even  the  civil  government  so 
far  as  the  mass  of  the  people  were  concerned, 
and  that  Henry's  blow,  while  struck  ostensibly 
at  a  detail  of  religious  life,  fell  in  actuality  on 
the  most  highly  organized  form  of  Christian 
society  then  existing. 

A  monastery  was,  of  course,  a  house  of  con- 
secrated men  vowed  to  poverty,  chastity,  and 
obedience,  and  bound  to  praise  and  glorify  God 
night  and  day;  but  besides  this  it  was  a  centre 
of  law,  order,  education,  and  mercy,  a  Christian 
citadel  in  the  midst  of  civil  disorder.  Some- 
where, almost  as  far  away  as  Heaven,  were  a 
king  and  his  court,  names  only.  At  close  inter- 
vals armies  went  raging  across  the  country;  why, 
few  knew,  and  fewer  cared.  Now  and  then 
came  laggard  word  of  a  king  slain  and  of 
another  reigning  in  his  stead:  these  were  the 
affairs  of  the  nobles,  the  king's  men,  and  they 
paid  for  their  knowledge  in  service  and  money; 
for  the  people,  the  thousands  over  against  the 
tens,  they  were  matters  of  profound  insignifi- 
cance. The  parish  priest  was  the  spiritual 
guide,  the  visible  agent  of  the  Church  but  the 
abbey,  priory  and  convent  were  the  signs  of 
Christian  society  organized,  unfailing,  perma- 
nently operative. 

[3] 


INTRODUCTION 

We  are  prone  to  forget  this  aspect  of  the  case, 
holding  in  mind  always  the  idea  of  consecrated 
men  and  women  withdrawn  from  the  world  for 
the  better  chastening  of  their  human  nature  and 
the  more  absolute  and  unintermittent  worship  of 
God.  We  fail  to  remember  that  the  many  short- 
comings and  occasional  impotence  of  the  civil 
government  had  forced  the  orders  to  become 
what  we  should  now  consider  civil  as  well  as 
religious  agents.  The  greater  orders  possessed 
vast  landed  estates  freely  given  by  numberless 
benefactors,  who  were  themselves  originally  bene- 
ficiaries,—  estates  managed  far  more  justly  and 
generously  than  those  of  secular  landlords. 
These  same  orders  held  other  estates  in  trust, 
and  acted  as  guardians  for  orphans  and  minors; 
they  undertook  the  education  of  children,  the 
preparation  of  candidates  for  holy  orders,  the 
maintenance  of  hospitals  and  asylums,  the  med- 
ical service  of  the  neighbourhood,  the  relief  of 
the  poor,  the  entertainment  of  travellers.  They 
were  the  teachers  of  the  agricultural  population 
in  all  things  pertaining  to  their  industry;  they 
were  themselves  great  producers  of  grain  and 
wool;  they  employed  large  numbers  of  men  in 
building,  carving,  printing,  bell  founding;  they 
were  the  fosterers  of  architecture,  painting,  sculp- 
ture, illumination,  embroidery,  gold-smithery, 

[4] 


INTRODUCTION 

and  organ  building.  They  were  at  the  same 
time  fallible  men,  and  their  vast  responsibilities 
sometimes  bred  failure,  sometimes  were  respon- 
sible for  a  grievous  falling  off  in  spiritual  things ; 
but  even  if  they  failed  now  and  then  as  religious, 
they  succeeded  as  guardians  of  society.  We 
read  with  amazement  it  may  be  of  the  majestic 
pageantry  of  some  abbot's  life;  but  we  must 
remember  that  he  was  not  only  the  head  of  a 
religious  house,  but  as  well  a  chief  of  the  people, 
less  a  monk  than  a  great  Christian  ruler,  taking 
the  place  of  secular  powers  that  were  frequently 
impotent  for  good.  Viewed  in  this  light,  con- 
sidering his  enormous  responsibilities  and  the 
amazingly  varied  nature  of  the  functions  he  was 
called  upon  to  perform,  we  shall  find  ourselves 
able  to  make  allowance  for  him  and  for  the 
priors  and  monks  over  whom  he  ruled.  Called 
by  the  insistent  clamour  of  the  times  to  duties 
never  contemplated  by  St.  Benedict  or  St. 
Robert,  the  orders  lost  undoubtedly  some  por- 
tion of  their  original  spirituality  and  self-abne- 
gation; but,  though  they  acquired  a  measure  of 
worldliness,  they  acquitted  themselves  nobly  of 
their  new  responsibilities,  and  for  century  after 
century  were  the  guardians,  the  leaders,  the 
benefactors  of  the  people. 

As  we  search  through  England  for  the  melan- 

[5] 


INTRODUCTION 

choly  shards  of  this  marvellous  institution,  find- 
ing here  and  there  at  wide  intervals  a  bit  of 
crumbling  wall,  finding  sometimes  only  a  name, 
it  is  hard  for  us  to  realize  how  absolutely  monas- 
ticism  was  a  part  of  the  intimate  daily  experience 
of  all  the  people.  Fate  has  left  us  in  general  the 
ruins  of  houses  aloof  from  the  common  routes 
of  travel  and  the  present  centres  of  population; 
it  has  wiped  out  utterly  even  the  memory  of 
hundreds  of  stately  foundations;  others  have 
become  cathedrals,  and  we  think  of  them  as 
having  always  been  such,  but  the  truth  is  that 
at  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth  century,  one 
could  not  travel  a  day's  journey  in  any  direction 
without  coming  upon  some  religious  house 
where  hospitality  was  to  be  had  for  the  asking. 
Indeed  in  large  sections  of  the  country  a  man 
could  safely  count  on  leaving  the  guest  house 
of  one  monastery  in  the  morning,  dining  at 
midday  at  another,  supping  and  sleeping  in  a 
third,  and  all  without  overexertion  in  travel. 
Bell  answered  bell  from  Lindisfarne  in  the  north 
to  Netley  in  the  south,  and  from  Yarmouth  to 
Strata  Florida.  Thirteen  hundred  in  number 
they  were  and  more,  counting  abbeys,  priories, 
nunneries,  cells,  and  hospitals,  besides  twenty- 
three  hundred  and  seventy-four  free  chapels  and 
chantries.  To  the  common  people  they  were 

[6] 


INTRODUCTION 

the  one  great  material  fact  in  life,  as  they  had 
been  for  generations  unnumbered,  as  they  would 
be,  it  surely  seemed,  for  their  children  and  their 
children's  children  to  the  end  of  time. 

Another  point  to  be  remembered  is  that  at 
this  time,  viz.,  the  accession  of  Henry  VIII.,  the 
Church  apart  from  the  monasteries  was  in  a 
bad  way.  Early  in  the  fourteenth  century  the 
civil  power,  exemplified  by  the  French  monarchy, 
had  asserted  and  established  an  unwholesome 
and  impossible  supremacy  over  the  Church: 
the  result  had  been  the  exile  of  the  Papacy  at 
Avignon  which,  brought  to  an  end  by  St. 
Catherine  of  Sienna,  only  gave  place  to  a  greater 
evil,  the  Great  Schism.  "The  Babylonian  Cap- 
tivity" lasted  seventy-five  years,  the  scandal 
of  the  anti-popes,  thirty-five  years  more.  Bishop 
Stubbs  has  called  the  thirteenth  century  "the 
golden  age  of  the  Church."  It  was  this  in  the 
fullest  degree,  but  at  the  very  moment  when 
Christian  civilization  had  reached  its  highest 
point,  the  fostering  power,  the  Church,  suc- 
cumbed to  secular  attacks,  was  beaten  down 
into  the  dust,  and  through  Avignon  and  the 
anti-popes  was  paralyzed  and  rendered  im- 
potent to  stop  the  flood  of  paganism  that  was 
fast  rising  into  the  deluge  of  the  Renaissance. 
But  for  the  malignant  hands  of  Philip  the  Fair 

[7] 


INTRODUCTION 

and  Charles  V.,  the  Church,  preserved  from 
exile,  royal  tyranny,  and  schism,  might  have 
successfully  resisted  the  new  paganism  even 
then  dawning  over  the  world,  but  this  mercy 
was  not  to  be,  and  the  scandals  of  the  fourteenth 
century  made  possible  the  still  greater  scandals 
of  the  fifteenth  and  the  cataclysm  of  that  which 
followed. 

In  spite  of  reforming  Popes  such  as  Nicholas  V. 
and  Pius  II.,  Avignon  and  the  Schism  bore  their 
inevitable  fruit.  Alexander  VI.,  Julius  II.  and 
Leo  X.  followed,  and  chaos  had  come  again. 
The  flood  of  sin  and  deadly  horror  that  over- 
spread the  Church  on  the  continent  broke  on 
the  cliffs  of  England  and  there  was  stayed;  but 
if  she  escaped  in  a  large  measure,  she  was  by  no 
means  unscathed,  and  at  this  time  there  were 
sufficient  evidences  of  the  terrible  corruption 
that  had  disgraced  the  fifteenth-century  Church. 
The  bishops  were  only  too  often  either  ab- 
sentee Italians  or  officials  of  the  State;  they 
were  constantly  called  to  high  civil  office 
with  all  that  meant  in  loss  of  spirituality  and 
abandonment  of  religious  functions;  pluralism, 
non-residence,  and  alienism  were  rampant;  only 
the  religious  orders,  and  particularly  the  Bene- 
dictines, held  in  a  measure  to  their  spiritual 
duties  while  discharging  most  acceptably  the 

[8] 


INTRODUCTION 

others  that  had  been  forced  upon  them.  When 
Henry  assailed  monasticism  he  laid  the  axe  not 
at  the  root  of  the  moribund  tree,  but  at  that  of 
the  strongest  and  healthiest  growth  in  the 
English  Church. 

And  the  people  themselves  knew  this  in  the 
fullest  degree.  At  the  beginning  of  the  sixteenth 
century  the  masterful  and  unscrupulous  Henry 
held  England  in  the  leash  of  utter  terrorism. 
"As  the  royal  policy  disclosed  itself,  as  the 
Monarchy  trampled  under  foot  the  tradition 
and  reverence  of  ages  gone  by,  as  its  figure  rose 
bare  and  terrible  out  of  the  wreck  of  old  institu- 
tions, England  simply  held  her  breath.  It  is 
only  through  the  stray  depositions  of  royal  spies 
that  we  catch  a  glimpse  of  the  wrath  and  hate 
which  lay  seething  under  this  silence  of  the 
people.  For  the  silence  was  a  silence  of  terror. 
Before  Cromwell's  rise  and  after  his  fall  from 
power,  the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  witnessed 
no  more  than  the  common  tyranny  and  blood- 
shed of  the  time.  But  the  years  of  Cromwell's 
administration  form  the  one  period  in  our  his- 
tory which  deserves  the  name  that  men  have 
given  to  the  rule  of  Robespierre.  It  was  the 
English  Terror.  .  .  .  All  trust  in  the  older  bul- 
warks of  liberty  was  destroyed  by  a  policy  as 
daring  as  it  was  unscrupulous.  The  noblest 

[9] 


INTRODUCTION 

institutions  were  degraded  into  instruments  of 
terror.  .  .  .  Cromwell  had  at  last  reached  his 
aim.  England  lay  panic-stricken  at  the  feet 
of  the  *  low-born  knave '  as  the  nobles  called 
him,  who  represented  the  omnipotence  of  the 
crown."  * 

There  were  few  of  the  temper  of  Bishop  Fisher 
and  Sir  Thomas  More,  but  for  such  as  there  were 
was  reserved  an  identical  fate;  yet  the  people 
rose  against  the  suppression  of  the  monasteries 
as  in  no  other  instance  where  Henry's  crimes 
were  concerned.  They  knew  their  friends,  and 
also  they  knew  Henry,  Cranmer,  and  Cromwell. 
The  fate  of  the  martyred  Carthusian  priors, 
Houghton,  Webster,  and  Lawrence,  who  were 
hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  and  of  the  nine 
monks  of  Charterhouse,  who  were  slowly  starved 
to  death,  was  before  them;  yet  in  defence  of  the 
monasteries  they  started  an  uprising,  led  by 
Robert  Aske,  that  threatened  to  send  Henry's 
throne  crashing  to  destruction  had  he  not 
crushed  it  by  solemn  promises,  which,  the  mo- 
ment he  had  the  formidable  insurrection  in 
hand,  were  promptly  broken.  Henry  played 
his  hand  craftily  and  well;  the  nobles  were  of 
his  own  creation  or  subsidized  by  him,  in  either 
case  utterly  in  his  power;  the  episcopate  he  also 

*Green:  "  A  History  of  the  English  People." 

[10] 


INTRODUCTION 

had  made  his  own.  With  incredible  swiftness 
he  crushed  the  rebellion,  rooted  out  every  vestige 
of  monasticism,  took  over  its  almost  incalculable 
wealth,  and  not  only  left  the  people  helpless  for 
a  time  and  without  leaders,  but  became  possessed 
of  a  body  of  faithful  nobles  bribed  by  monastic 
lands  and  of  a  treasure  chest  adequate  for  the 
putting  down  of  any  revolt  that  might  again 
occur.  It  was  a  great  game  in  which  men  such 
as  Henry  VIII.  and  Thomas  Crumwell  could 
not  lose. 

We  are  sometimes  tempted  to  find  a  certain 
justification  for  the  king's  course  in  the  complete 
complaisance  of  the  higher  nobility,  who,  it  must 
be  confessed,  backed  him  most  heartily  in  all 
his  schemes ;  but  it  was  a  very  different  nobility 
to  that  which  had  existed  a  century  before. 
The  Wars  of  the  Roses  had  practically  extermi- 
nated the  families  ancient  in  honour,  and  Henry 
was  surrounded  by  a  throng  of  new  creations 
without  blood  and  without  traditions.  His  atti- 
tude toward  them  was  quite  different  to  that  of 
his  father:  instead  of  bullying,  he  subsidized 
them,  and  one  and  all  they  soon  saw  that  the 
only  road  to  wealth  and  preferment  lay  through 
the  sovereign's  favour.  In  general  they  were 
rapacious,  covetous,  unprincipled,  and  irreligious ; 
and  they  saw,  as  did  the  king,  that  the  wealth 


INTRODUCTION 

most  easily  obtainable  was  the  wealth  of  pre- 
cisely those  men  who  were  powerless  to  resist 
spoliation. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  that  extraor- 
dinary personality,  Cardinal  Wolsey,  rose  into 
supremacy.  At  the  same  time  beneficent  and 
baleful,  "insatiable  in  his  requisitions,  but  still 
more  magnificent  in  his  expense,  of  extensive 
capacity,  but  still  more  unbounded  enterprise,"* 
"he  was  a  minister  of  consummate  address  and 
commanding  abilities,  greedy  of  wealth  and 
power  and  glory,"  f  and  was  responsible  in  his 
own  person  for  the  nature  of  that  which  followed, 
since  in  his  service  was  bred  that  terrible  tool, 
Thomas  Crumwell,  "the  cloth  carder,"  "Vice- 
Gerent  and  Vicar-General,"  "than  whom  none 
ever  rose  so  rapidly  and  no  one  has  left  behind 
him  a  name  covered  with  greater  infamy  and 
disgrace,"J  and  who,  on  the  fall  of  Cardinal 
Wolsey,  was  taken  over  of  the  king  to  carry  out 
a  project  suggested  by  the  very  actions  of  the 
cardinal  himself. 

Determined  to  emulate  the  great  William  of 
Wykeham,  Wolsey  bullied  the  helpless  and  hope- 
less Clement  VII.  into  sanctioning  his  scheme 

*  Hume:  "  History  of  England." 

fLingard:  "  History  of  England." 

J  F.  A.  Gasquet,  D.D. :  "  Henry  VIII.  and  the  English  Monasteries." 

[12] 


Fountains — John    of    Kent's    "NMne    Altars." 


INTRODUCTION 

for  suppressing  enough  of  the  smaller  monas- 
teries to  give  him  money  for  the  founding  of  his 
"Cardinal's  College"  in  Oxford;  and  the  pecu- 
niary results  so  excited  the  admiration  of  the 
king  that,  Wolsey  once  out  of  the  way,  he  con- 
tinued to  develop  and  exploit  the  mine  that 
promised  so  well. 

It  was,  however,  the  bitter  opposition  of  the 
orders  to  the  divorce  of  Queen  Katherine  that 
first  roused  Henry's  anger  and,  in  the  result, 
gave  him  his  first  taste  of  blood  and  plunder. 
Seven  houses  of  Franciscan  Observants  refused 
to  take  the  oath  of  allegiance  to  Anne  Boleyn, 
and  were  promptly  suppressed.  The  Carthu- 
sians of  the  London  Charterhouse  followed  next, 
and  then  the  king,  with  the  invaluable  aid  of 
Crumwell,  evolved  his  scheme  for  suppressing 
the  smaller  monasteries.  To  bring  this  about 
he  directed  Crumwell,  then  in  full  favour,  to 
make  a  "visitation"  of  all  the  monasteries, 
through  his  chosen  agents.  The  task  was  car- 
ried out  to  admiration:  the  "Vicar-General" 
chose  four  men  in  whom  he  could  trust, 
creatures  of  his  own  and  four  of  the  most 
perfect  knaves  ever  recorded  in  history,  Doc- 
tors London,  Layton,  Legh,  and  Ap  Rice,  and 
sent  them  forth  on  their  unsavoury  errand. 
Fortunately  their  letters  to  their  master  have 

[13] 


INTRODUCTION 

been  preserved,  and  a  more  shocking  revela- 
tion of  essential  depravity  is  unimaginable. 
We  know  now  the  nature  of  these  "visitors," 
for  they  have  revealed  it  over  their  own  hands 
and  seals;  and  it  is  so  unmitigated  in  its  vile- 
ness  that  no  man  now  would  believe  any  one 
of  them  under  oath.  "It  is  not  impossible 
that  even  such  bad  men  may  have  told  the 
truth  in  this  matter,  but  the  character  of  wit- 
nesses must  always  form  an  important  element 
in  estimating  the  value  of  their  testimony,  and 
the  character  of  such  obscene,  profligate  and 
perjured  witnesses  as  Lay  ton  and  London  could 
not  be  worse."  * 

It  is  on  their  unsubstantiated  statements  that 
the  lesser  and  finally  the  greater  monasteries 
were  condemned.  "Condemned"?  by  whom? 
Not  by  the  king,  for  he  had  determined  to  wipe 
them  out  before  CrumwelFs  emissaries  set  foot 
on  their  journey:  by  the  Lords?  There  was 
once  a  tradition  of  a  certain  "Black  Book" 
which  was  so  awful  in  its  revelations  that  when 
placed  before  the  Lords  it  brought  their  pious 
condemnation.  Yet  for  the  existence  of  this 
"Black  Book"  there  is  no  shadow  of  valid  evi- 
dence, and  we  have  every  reason  for  believing 
that  the  Lords  doomed  the  monasteries  on  the 

*  Blunt:  "The  Reformation  of  the  Church  of  England." 

[14]    ' 


INTRODUCTION 

easy  word  of  the  king  that  he  had  "knowledge 
that  the  premises  be  true":  by  the  Commons? 
An  historian,  writing  only  some  sixty  years  after 
the  event  and  recording  at  least  the  popular 
belief  as  to  the  facts,  states  that  when  Henry 
heard  that  the  Commons  were  recalcitrant  in 
this  particular  affair  he  called  them  all  to  attend 
him  and,  after  making  them  wait  all  day,  came 
suddenly  among  them.  "I  hear  (saith  he)  that 
my  bill  will  not  pass,  but  I  will  have  it  pass  or 
I  will  have  some  of  your  heads":*  by  the  peo- 
ple? "The  Pilgrimage  of  Grace"  and  the  ris- 
ings in  Yorkshire  and  Lincolnshire  are  the 
answer. 

After  all  these  centuries  and  in  spite  of  the 
misrepresentations  of  certain  historians,  we  have 
good  ground  for  holding  that  the  "comperta" 
of  Crumwell's  emissaries  are  little  more  than 
malignant  lies,  or  at  best  scurrilous  stories 
gathered  from  pothouse  and  hovel,  and,  as  Green 
admits  in  his  "  History  of  the  English  People," 
"grossly  exaggerated"  at  that.  It  is  an  actual 
matter  of  fact  that  every  indictment  against  the 
monks  and  nuns  of  the  period  rests  on  the  sole 
and  totally  unsubstantiated  word  of  London, 
Legh,  Layton,  or  Ap  Rice,  and  no  man  would 
condemn  a  dog  to-day  on  the  oath  of  any  one 

*Sir  Henry  Spelman:  "  History  of  Sacrilege." 

[15] 


INTRODUCTION 

of  these  worthies.  "A  dean,"  says  Blunt  in 
speaking  of  London,  "twice  detected  in  immo- 
rality and  put  to  open  penance  for  it,  and 
afterwards  convicted  of  perjury,  is  not  the  stuff 
of  which  credible  witnesses  are  made."  * 

During  1535-6  Henry's  policy  was  to  oppress 
the  remaining  monasteries  into  extinction,  and 
his  brutal  methods  would  have  been  wholly 
successful  had  he  not  decided  very  wisely  that 
more  sudden  and  radical  measures  would  give 
better  returns  in  money.  The  results  of  the 
suppression  of  the  smaller  monasteries  were 
vastly  greater  than  even  he  had  anticipated,  and 
proved  what  a  veritable  Golconda  lay  under 
his  hand.  In  the  first  assault  three  hundred 
and  seventy-six  houses  had  gone  down.  Sloane 
sets  the  amount  of  money  really  received  for  the 
buildings  and  treasure  at  the  equivalent  of 
about  $6,000,000  to-day,  which  is  perhaps  too 
high,  but  is  only  a  tithe  of  the  extrinsic  value. 
Usually  in  the  case  of  a  great  abbey  the  bells 
and  the  lead  from  the  roof  were  considered  the 
only  available  assets,  the  former  bringing  about 
three  dollars  per  pound  in  our  money.  What 
the  intrinsic  value  of  a  group  of  conventual 
buildings  might  have  been  is  shown  from  the 
fact  that  the  lead  from  the  roofs  of  Bury 

*  Blunt:  "  The  Reformation  of  the  Church  of  England." 

[16] 


INTRODUCTION 

St.  Edmunds  was  sold  for  the  equivalent  of 
$200,000. 

The  buildings  themselves,  those  marvels  of 
majestic  architecture,  were  considered  of  no 
marketable  value;  thus,  at  the  destruction  of 
Bath  Abbey  the  dorter  was  sold  for  $600,  the 
fratry  for  $360,  the  cloisters  for  $480,  while  all 
the  buildings  of  Athelney  Abbey  were  sold  for 
$1,200.  In  many  cases  the  people  saved  the 
buildings  they  loved  by  purchasing  them  from 
the  king's  agents,  and  the  prices  they  paid  are 
significant:  Romsey,  a  majestic  edifice  of  cathe- 
dral proportions,  was  bought  for  $6,000,  Mal- 
vern  $1,200,  and  St.  Albans,  now  the  cathedral, 
for  $24,000.  The  examples  I  have  quoted  are 
from  among  the  greater  abbeys  suppressed  a 
year  or  two  later,  but  they  serve  as  an  indication 
of  the  disparity  between  the  actual  value  of  the 
property  and  the  prices  received. 

Of  course  the  king's  coffers  received  only  a 
small  proportion  of  the  proceeds;  at  least  three 
fourths  went  into  the  hands  of  his  agents,  yet  in 
Lincolnshire  alone,  in  the  first  six  months  of  the 
suppression  of  the  lesser  monasteries,  John 
Freeman,  the  royal  receiver,  admitted  to  having 
collected  from  the  sale  of  buildings  and  their 
contents  $375,000,  probably  about  one  tenth 
the  real  value.  This  came  from  thirty-seven 

[17] 


INTRODUCTION 

houses,  the  annual  rent  rolls  of  which  aggregated 
$180,000.  As  a  result  of  this  first  suppression, 
three  hundred  and  seventy-six  houses  were  ex- 
tinguished with  an  annual  rent  roll  of  $1,800,000, 
a  real  value  for  lands  and  buildings  of  perhaps 
$40,000,000.  More  than  two  thousand  monks 
and  nuns  were  dispossessed  arid  distributed 
among  other  houses,  and  eight  thousand  depend- 
ents were  reduced  to  beggary. 

Halted  by  the  popular  insurrections  all  over 
the  north  of  England,  Henry  turned  for  a  time 
to  "dissolution  by  attainder,"  a  deft  process 
which  invariably  gave  good  results.  The  method 
was  this :  the  agents  of  the  king  appeared  before 
a  given  abbey  and  demanded  its  immediate 
surrender;  if  the  demand  was  complied  with, 
the  abbot  and  prior  were  given  fat  livings,  the 
monks  pensioned;  if  it  was  refused,  the  king  at 
once  charged  the  abbot  with  high  treason  before 
Parliament,  which,  as  it  was  then  constituted, 
was  safely  to  be  counted  on  to  declare  the  ac- 
cused guilty  without  trial.  Thereupon  the  abbot 
was  hanged,  drawn,  and  quartered,  the  monks 
were  expelled  without  pensions,  and  the  entire 
property  of  the  abbey  came  to  the  king.  In 
this  way  fell  the  three  great  mitred  abbeys  of 
Glastonbury,  Reading,  and  Colchester,  among 
the  most  glorious  and  powerful,  as  well  as 

[18] 


INTRODUCTION 

stainless    in    reputation,    of    the    Benedictine 
houses. 

Shortly  before  this  the  priories  and  nunneries 
had  been  wiped  out,  and  now,  Aske  and  the 
Yorkshire  abbots  having  been  killed  and  that 
danger  well  passed,  Henry,  whose  financial  needs 
were  increasing  every  day,  struck  finally  at  the 
last  of  the  greater  houses,  and  with  incredible 
swiftness  swept  the  whole  institution  into  final 
ruin.  For  this  action  there  was  no  excuse, 
except  that  they  were  a  constant  thorn  in  the 
king's  flesh  through  their  former  opposition 
(now  largely  extinguished  by  terrorism)  to  his 
entire  career,  political,  religious,  and  domestic, 
and  that  he  preferred  to  have  their  property  for 
his  own  personal  use.  Even  CrumwelPs  agents 
had  rashly  admitted,  at  the  time  of  the  introduc- 
tion of  the  bill  in  Parliament  for  the  suppression 
of  the  monasteries  with  an  annual  income  of 
$12,000  or  less,  that  "in  divers  and  great  solemn 
monasteries  of  this  realm,  thanks  be  to  God, 
religion  is  right  well  kept  and  observed."  This 
fact,  for  fact  it  was,  as  proved  by  eixsting  docu- 
ments, was  of  no  avail.  The  people  could  stand 
no  further  taxation  and  Henry  needed  such  vast 
sums  for  the  subsidizing  of  the  nobles,  the  main- 
tenance of  his  international  system  of  bribery 
and  espionage,  and,  above  all,  for  his  own  some- 

[19] 


INTRODUCTION 

what  elaborate  household,  that  there  was  nothing 
else  to  be  done.  When  funds  cannot  be  obtained 
legally,  they  must  be  acquired  otherwise:  the 
people  had  little  left  worth  taking;  the  nobles 
would  not  submit  to  taxation;  the  monks,  who 
possessed  very  concrete  and  easily  convertible 
property,  could  not  resist,  and  therefore  suf- 
fered. 

The  narrative  of  the  Great  Suppression  cannot 
be  reduced  to  a  few  words.  The  facts  have 
been  gathered  together  and  put  in  the  most  con- 
cise form  by  Doctor  Gasquet,  to  whose  "  Henry 
VIII.  and  the  English  Monasteries"  any  one 
may  go  who  cares  for  details.  The  destruction 
was  carried  out  with  all  brutality  and  surrounded 
by  every  conceivable  degree  of  horror,  outrage, 
and  butchery.  When  the  black  cloud  lifted 
there  were  not  any  monks,  nuns,  and  friars,  nor 
any  abbeys,  priories,  or  convents  remaining  in 
England.  Broken  and  dishonoured  ruins  of 
majestic  wonders  of  art  blasted  every  county; 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  acres  of  land  had  been 
distributed  amongst  the  king's  upstart  nobility; 
and  ten  thousand  religious  of  both  sexes  had 
been  dispossessed.  One  half  this  number  had 
received  pensions,  ample  it  is  true  in  the  case  of 
abbots,  adequate  for  priors,  but,  so  far  as  monks 
and  nuns  were  concerned,  just  enough  on  which 

[20] 


INTRODUCTION 

to  starve ;  the  other  five  thousand  had  either  been 
killed  or  turned  out  to  die  in  poverty.  In  addi- 
tion upwards  of  eighty  thousand  dependents, 
men,  women,  and  children,  had  been  reduced  in 
a  day  to  absolute  beggary :  for  them  was  neither 
consideration  nor  mercy. 

The  events  that  had  taken  place  had  been  of 
some  benefit  to  the  king.  He  had  removed  for- 
ever the  only  source  of  dangerous  opposition  to 
his  policies,  while  from  the  sale  of  monastic 
lands  he  had  received  about  $52,000,000,  prob- 
ably one  third  its  market  value.  The  buildings, 
vestments,  sacred  vessels,  bells,  books,  and  works 
of  art  had  brought  in  $1,500,000,  perhaps  one  fifth 
the  money  actually  collected  by  the  receivers. 
The  intrinsic  value  cannot  be  computed,  but 
to  restore  the  ruined  abbeys  again  to  their 
former  estate  would  require  at  least  $250,000,000. 
The  total  income  of  the  confiscated  estates  dur- 
ing the  ten  years  from  1536  to  1547  had  been 
$25,000,000.  This  sum  represented  a  very 
small  part  of  the  real  and  potential  revenue, 
which  under  the  monks  themselves  had  been 
about  $11,000,000  per  year;  yet  the  unbroken 
testimony  is  that  the  secular  landlords  were 
incalculably  more  oppressive  and  greedy  than 
the  monks  had  been.  From  April,  1536,  to 
Michaelmas,  1547,  the  King's  treasury  received 

[21] 


INTRODUCTION 

£1,338,442,  95,  2|d,  equal  to  rather  more  than 
$70,000,000  of  our  money. 

We  may  say  then  that  the  destruction  of  the 
English  monasteries  resulted  in  unnumbered 
murders;  the  reduction  to  beggary  of  one  hun- 
dred thousand  men,  women,  and  children;  the 
total  destruction  of  about  $200,000,000  worth  of 
property;  the  alienation  to  those  who  had  no 
claim  to  it  whatever  of  estates,  the  rentable 
value  of  which  was  about  $11,000,000  per  year; 
the  temporary  extinction  of  education,  mercy, 
and  public  charity ;  the  abolition  in  great  sections 
of  territory  and  for  several  millions  of  people  of 
the  services  and  ministrations  of  religion;  the 
eternal  loss  of  works  of  art  of  immeasurable 
value;  and,  as  the  event  proved,  "The  creation 
of  a  large  class  of  poor  to  whose  poverty  was 
attached  the  stigma  of  crime ;  the  division  of  class 
from  class,  the  rich  mounting  up  to  place  and 
power,  the  poor  sinking  to  lower  depths:  de- 
struction of  custom  as  a  check  upon  the  exac- 
tions of  landlords:  the  loss  by  the  poor  of  those 
foundations  at  schools  and  universities  intended 
for  their  children,  and  the  passing  away  of 
ecclesiastical  titles  into  the  hands  of  lay 
owners."* 

I  have  dealt  above  with  the  facts  of  the  Sup- 

*F.  A.  Gasquet,  D.D. :  "  Henry  VIII.  and  the  English  Monasteries." 

[22] 


INTRODUCTION 

pression,  not  with  the  totally  different  question 
as  to  whether  or  no  monasticism  had  outlived 
its  usefulness  in  England  and  had  to  fall  if  the 
Church  were  to  become  independent  once  more 
and  the  English  people  go  on  unhampered  in 
their  development.  Here  there  is  a  chance  for 
differences  of  opinion;  but  I  believe  there  is  no 
such  opportunity  when  it  comes  to  a  considera- 
tion of  monastic  morals  during  the  fifteenth  and 
sixteenth  centuries,  the  motives  behind  the  Sup- 
pression, and  the  methods  pursued  in  bringing 
this  about. 

The  only  ground  we  have  for  assuming  cor- 
ruption and  immorality  on  the  part  of  the  relig- 
ious of  the  several  orders  is  the  fact  that  they 
were  human  and  therefore  fallible.  That  among 
some  ten  thousand  men  and  women  there  must 
have  been  instances  of  failure  to  live  up  to  their 
vows  is  perfectly  certain;  that  during  the  long 
career  of  monasticism  in  England  there  were 
innumerable  instances  of  quarrelling,  litigation, 
jealousy,  oppression,  individual  immorality,  is 
equally  true.  No  one  has  ever  claimed  for  re- 
ligious exemption  from  human  weaknesses; 
there  were  bad  abbots,  priors,  and  monks, 
as  there  were  bad  bishops  and  priests,  and  bad 
princes,  nobles,  and  commons.  But  there  is  no 
evidence  whatever  to  prove  that  the  cloister 

[23] 


INTRODUCTION 

fostered  wickedness  of  any  kind,  or  that  its  occu- 
pants were  not  living  after  a  higher  standard 
than  the  secular  priesthood  and  those  to  whom 
they  ministered.  On  the  other  hand,  while  we 
find  evidence  of  serious  troubles,  particularly 
in  the  fourteenth  century,  these  are  curiously 
lacking  in  the  latter  half  of  the  fifteenth  century 
and  the  first  years  of  that  which  followed, 
while  the  proofs  of  corruption  and  failure 
among  the  secular  priesthood  are  too  complete 
to  be  denied,  even  Roman  apologists  admitting 
the  fact  with  such  cheerfulness  as  is  possible. 
Was  this  destruction  justifiable  on  the  broader 
grounds  of  national  policy?  Had  the  monas- 
teries become  indeed  "fetters  on  the  advance- 
ment of  freedom,  education  and  true  religion"? 
Was  it  necessary  that  they  should  fall  in  order 
that  English  civilization  might  advance  another 
step  in  its  development?  Conceivably,  yes, 
and  also  conceivably,  no.  It  is  a  question  that 
I  submit  is  unanswerable.  After  a  period  of 
very  terrible  chaos  England  did  advance,  and 
it  is  equally  true  that  the  consensus  of  opinion 
is  that  the  Church  could  not  have  re-estab- 
lished her  independence  of  Rome  except  after 
the  destruction  of  monasticism.  It  is  easy  to 
argue  as  to  what  might  have  happened  if 
Oliver  Cromwell  had  really  been  allowed  to 

[24] 


INTRODUCTION 

emigrate  from  England  in  the  early  days  of 
King  Charles's  reign,  if  Washington  had  refused 
to  take  command  of  the  Continental  army,  if 
Blucher  had  not  come  up  in  time  at  Waterloo, 
if  Lincoln  had  not  been  assassinated;  but  the 
arguments  lead  nowhere.  In  the  same  way  one 
might  easily  prove  that  the  advancement  of  civil- 
ization in  England  and  the  vigorous  develop- 
ment of  her  national  Church  might  have  been 
far  more  healthful,  normal,  and  sane,  with  equally 
satisfactory  results,  had  the  monasteries  been 
reformed,  not  suppressed.  The  argument  is 
valueless,  for  it  is  not  susceptible  of  proof. 
The  fact  remains  that  by  reason  of,  or  in  spite 
of,  this  suppression  England  and  the  Church 
did  go  on  to  better  things ;  but  is  there  no  ground 
for  holding  that  this  was  due  to  a  destiny  no  act 
of  man  could  turn  aside? 

One  thing  however,  is  sure:  the  suppression 
of  the  monasteries  was  conceived  and  encom- 
passed by  two  men  who  personally  cared  nothing 
for  the  abstract  idea  of  the  progressive  develop- 
ment of  national  civilization,  for  the  adminis- 
trative independence  of  the  Church,  for  the 
principle  of  doctrinal  purification  alleged  by 
the  continental  reformers,  or  for  the  rectification 
of  public  morals.  Henry  determined  to  destroy 
monasticism  for  the  same  reason  that  influ- 

[25] 


INTRODUCTION 

enced  him  to  destroy  parliamentary  govern- 
ment: because  it  was  a  fetter  on  his  absolute 
will  as  king;  because  it  was  in  the  beginning 
bitterly  opposed  to  his  break  with  Rome,  his 
proclamation  of  himself  as  supreme  head  on 
earth  of  the  Church  in  England,  and  his  di- 
vorce of  Queen  Katherine;  finally,  because  he 
was  in  need  of  vast  sums  of  money  and  could 
get  them  nowhere  else.  I  am  not  writing  an 
apology  for  monasticism  as  an  institution;  it 
is  possible  it  was  well  for  England  that  it 
should  be  shorn  of  its  enormous  power,  and 
even  for  a  space  extinguished.  I  do  hold,  how- 
ever, that,  if  Henry  and  Crumwell  were  fighting 
the  battle  of  developing  civilization,  it  was  with 
entire  unconsciousness  of  the  part  they  were 
playing,  that  their  only  conscious  motives  were 
base  and  singularly  sordid,  that  the  methods 
they  followed  were  such  as  to  merit  nothing  but 
unsparing  denunciation,  and  that  the  immediate 
results  were  most  lamentable  both  for  the  Nation 
and  for  the  Church. 


Glastonbury — The   South   Choir  Aisle. 


The  Ruined  Abbeys 


Great  Britain 


those  who  have  ever  set  foot  in  the 
magical  Island  of  Avalon,  the  word 
means  immeasurable  things,  and  to  its 
few  and  desecrated  ruins  one  turns  first  among 
all  the  abbeys  of  England.  From  every  stand- 
point it  demands  primary  honour  and  considera- 
tion, not  only  as  the  most  famous  and  glorious 
of  the  houses  of  the  earliest  and  greatest  order 
of  monks,  nor  yet  as  the  ground  hallowed  by 
the  feet  of  the  holiest  and  highest  of  bishops, 
priests,  and  kings,  but  as  in  very  deed  the  un- 
questioned site  of  the  first  Christian  church  in 
Britain. 

Glastonbury  lies  far  from  the  great  con- 
temporary centres  of  life,  away  from  the  com- 
mon routes  of  travel,  sequestered  among  the 
low  and  softly  rounded  hills  of  Somerset. 

[27] 


GLASTONBURY 

Casual  and  infrequent  trains  crawl  thence  in 
leisurely  fashion  from  the  cathedral  city  of 
Wells,  but  the  trains,  though  useful,  are  an 
impertinence  in  a  way,  and  seem  to  feel  this  in 
their  halting  half-heartedness.  Even  now,  though 
few  holy  places  in  England  have  suffered  more, 
and  few  have  actually  so  little  to  show  in  living 
reminder  of  a  deathless  past,  one  cannot  avoid 
the  instinctive  feeling  that  the  approach  should 
be  pilgrim  fashion  and  on  foot,  even  as  the 
founders  of  this  first  Christian  community  in 
Britain  came  to  "a  certain  Royal  Island,  of  old 
called  Glastonbury,"  the  mystical  land  of  Avalon: 

"  Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with  summer  seas." 

L/ong  before  arrival,  and  from  whichever 
point  one  may  approach,  across  the  swelling 
downs  and  pastures  and  flowery  gardens,  through 
dips  in  the  low-lying  hills,  Glastonbury  Tor 
lifts,  ominous  and  insistent;  a  sudden  steep 
hill  like  a  volcanic  cone,  crowned  with  the  gaunt 
spike  of  a  lonely  tower,  from  the  base  of  which 
every  vestige  of  church  has  fallen  away.  There 
is  something  foreboding  in  this  weird,  tower- 
topped  pyramid:  it  forces  itself  on  the  mind 
with  curious  insistence,  and  well  it  may,  for, 
on  a  certain  day  in  November,  1539,  the  last 

[28] 


GLASTONBURY 

act  in  a  ghastly  tragedy  wore  to  its  bloody  close 
on  its  crest,  and  there  the  curtain  fell  forever 
on  a  mighty  drama  of  human  life.  Apart  from 
the  Tor,  there  is  only  gentleness  and  peace 
now  to  be  seen  in  the  land  that  lies  about  the 
island  the  Saxons  called  Ynis-wytren:  a  softer 
and  sweeter  country  one  could  not  call  up  in 
fancy;  rich,  green,  fertile,  breathed  over  by 
soft  winds  and  bland  in  summer  sun.  And  not 
so  many  years  ago,  the  town  itself  was  of  a  piece 
with  the  land  —  old,  grey,  drowsy,  with  frag- 
ments here  and  there  of  buildings  that  dated 
from  the  time  when  the  vanished  abbey  was  a 
place  of  pious  pilgrimage,  and  tens  of  thou- 
sands of  men  and  women  from  all  over  England 
gathered  here  to  do  honour  to  the  memory  of 
saints  and  martyrs  and  kings,  long  dead,  but, 
while  the  monks  remained,  unforgotten.  Of 
late,  however,  revolution  has  begun:  roads  are 
being  widened,  straightened,  and  blocks  of 
hideous  brick  tenements  are  lining  the  way 
where  once  unnumbered  kings  and  queens  and 
nobles,  with  flaunting  retinues,  rode  up  to  pay 
homage  before  the  "Sapphire  Shrine"  and  the 
graves  of  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  St.  Patrick 
and  St.  Dunstan,  King  Arthur  and  Guinevere, 
his  queen. 

We  may  accept  or  reject  the  narrative  of  old 
[29] 


GLASTONBURY 

William  of  Malmesbury :  the  fashion  of  doubt  has 
cast  discredit  on  legend,  record,  and  history,  but 
his  was  the  faithful  belief  of  all  men  for  a  thou- 
sand years,  and  in  testimony  thereof  the  Island 
of  Avalon  with  its  church  of  incredible  glory 
became  the  holiest  spot  in  all  England  and, 
shamed  and  discredited,  so  it  remains  to-day. 
Pious  legends  we  may  reject,  if  such  is  the  bent 
of  our  minds,  but  whether  or  no  we  believe  that 
St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea  led  hither  his  band  of  the 
Disciples:  whether  we  hold  or  discard  the  tra- 
dition that  St.  Patrick  first  organized  the  scat- 
tered hermits  of  Avalon  into  a  semblance  of 
order,  or  that  Arthur  and  Guinevere  lay  here 
in  a  single  grave,  enough  and  more  than  enough 
remains,  against  which  even  modern  criticism 
is  powerless,  to  make  this  the  holiest  land  in  all 
Great  Britain. 

The  tradition  of  the  founding  of  the  abbey 
by  St.  Philip  the  Apostle  and  his  twelve  dis- 
ciples, amongst  whom  was  St.  Joseph  of  Ari- 
mathea, was  held  from  the  earliest  times  until 
the  reign  of  Henry  VIII.;  it  is  perfectly  credible 
and  also  perfectly  unprovable;  the  question  is 
one  solely  of  belief.  The  tale  of  the  coming  of 
the  footsore  pilgrims,  bearing  the  Holy  Grail, 
their  rest  on  Wearyall  hill,  the  genesis  of  the 
holy  thorn  from  Joseph's  staff,  the  building  of 

[30] 


GLASTONBURY 

the  wattle  church  and  its  consecration  —  these 
are  all  such  pious  tales  as  may  have  grown 
either  from  nothing  or  from  everything;  they  bear 
the  mark  of  monks'  fables,  and  equally  they 
bear  the  mark  of  impeccable  tradition.  Take 
or  leave  them,  there  is  still  the  fact  that  here 
was  built,  in  all  human  probability,  the  first 
Christian  church  in  Britain.  And  the  list  of 
those  who  lived  within  the  abbey  walls  or  were 
buried  in  the  consecrated  ground  of  their  en- 
closure is  large  enough,  even  without  the  addi- 
tion of  those  whom  history,  arbiter  of  the 
legendary,  stigmatizes  as  such.  St.  Dunstan, 
St.  Gildas,  St.  David,  St.  Aidan,  the  Venerable 
Bede,  King  Coel  the  father  of  St.  Helena,  King 
Edmund  "the  Magnificent,"  King  Edgar,  King 
Edmund  "Ironsides,"  not  to  name  martyrs, 
confessors,  virgins,  bishops,  abbots,  kings, 
princes,  nobles,  the  list  of  whose  names  would 
run  into  hundreds.  For  a  thousand  years  Glas- 
tonbury  was  "held  in  such  Veneration  that  it 
was  called  a  Second  Rome,  for  Sanctity." 
From  all  over  England  and  Europe  the  great 
dead  were  brought  here  for  sepulture,  and  the 
soil  was  sent  away  in  vast  quantities,  even  as 
from  Palestine  itself.  In  the  fifteenth  century 
so  clamorous  were  the  faithful  for  burial  space 
within  the  walls,  that  the  monks  were  constrained 

[31] 


GLASTONBURY 

to  excavate  a  crypt  beneath  the  chapel  of  St. 
Mary;  and  the  lead  of  the  crowded  coffins  there, 
less  than  an  hundred  years  later,  formed  part 
of  the  spoil  of  the  destroyers.  Sacred  the  place 
was  and  is,  beyond  measure  or  computation. 
For  nearly  four  centuries  it  has  been  subject  to 
hideous  desecration,  and  is  now:  the  last  time 
I  was  there,  a  few  months  ago,  hundreds  of 
freshly  shorn  sheep  were  herded  within  the 
narrow  enclosure,  grinding  the  long  grass  down 
into  muck  and  mire,  climbing  over  the  shat- 
tered walls,  snatching  at  the  clinging  ivy,  filling 
the  air  with  a  deafening  bedlam  of  foolish  cries. 
The  filth  under  foot  was  indescribable.  At 
another  time  the  sheep  were  absent,  but  several 
horses  were  tethered  within  the  nave  and  aisles, 
and  in  the  very  Sanctuary  itself  a  miserable 
calf,  tied  to  a  stake,  fell  in  a  fit  and  kicked  out 
its  life  where  once  stood  the  tomb  of  King  Arthur 
and  his  queen. 

Shall  we  add  these  names  to  the  list  of  those 
who  have  rendered  the  word  immortal?  We 
are  told  there  is  no  sure  proof  that  either  has 
ever  lived.  It  may  be  so:  the  matter  is  unim- 
portant, for  the  names  of  Arthur  and  Guinevere, 
Merlin  and  Mordred,  Launcelot,  Galahad,  and 
Elaine  have  become  so  interwoven  with  the 
history  of  the  world  that  their  actual  existence 

[32] 


GLASTONBURY 

in  time  and  space  is  of  little  moment :  they  stand 
for  entities,  persistent  and  operative,  that  re- 
main forever.  Actualities  or  emanations,  they 
are  now  facts,  and  no  criticism  can  make  them 
else.  The  narrative  of  the  finding  of  the  bodies 
of  Arthur  and  Guinevere  during  the  abbacy  of 
Henry  de  Soliaco,  in  the  year  1191,  goes  far 
to  prove  not  only  its  own  truth,  but  the  material 
fact  of  real  existence  as  well:  it  is  concise,  de- 
tailed, convincing,  full  of  internal  evidences  of 
perfect  veracity;  if  false,  it  is  a  masterpiece 
of  circumstantial  evidence  quite  unimaginable  of 
the  twelfth  century.  Giraldus  Cambrensis,  de- 
claring himself  an  eye-witness,  sets  down  the 
facts  simply  and  in  the  most  matter-of-fact  way. 
Between  the  two  mysterious  pyramids  beside 
the  chapel  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  seven  feet  be- 
low the  surface,  was  found  a  large  flat  stone,  in 
the  under  side  of  which  was  set  a  rude  leaden 
cross,  which,  on  being  removed,  revealed  on  its 
inner  and  unexposed  surface  the  roughly  fash- 
ioned inscription,  "Hie  jacet  sepultus  inclitus 
Rex  Arthurius  in  Insula  Avalonia."  Nine  feet 
below  this  lay  an  huge  coffin  of  hollowed  oak, 
wherein  were  found  two  cavities,  the  larger  con- 
taining a  man's  bones  of  enormous  size,  the 
skull  bearing  ten  sword  wounds,  the  smaller 
the  bones  of  a  woman  and  a  great  tress  of  golden 

[33] 


GLASTONBURY 

hair,  that  on  exposure  to  the  air  crumbled  into 
dust.  "The  Abbat  and  Convent  receiving  their 
Remains  with  great  joy,  translated  them  to  the 
great  Church,  placing  the  King's  Body  by  itself 
at  the  upper  Part  of  a  noble  Tomb,  divided  into 
two  Parts,  and  the  Queen  at  the  Feet,  in  the 
Choir  before  the  High  Altar,  where  they  rest  in 
magnificent  Manner  'til  this  Day." 

It  is  impossible  to  step  within  the  shrunken 
precincts  without  submitting  to  the  spell  they 
weave.  Here  facts  fall  and  dissolve :  the  instant 
one  stands  in  the  shadow  of  these  mighty  crags 
of  riven  masonry,  all  the  inheritance  of  a  thou- 
sand years  comes  back,  and  we  know  that  here 
also  walked  St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  St.  Patrick, 
King  Arthur  and  his  queen,  and  that  beneath 
the  vanished  vaults  once  rested  the  Holy  Grail. 

For  there  is  no  other  place  exactly  like  Glaston- 
bury.  Of  the  abbeys,  Fountains  and  Netley 
and  Tintern,  and  Whitby  and  Melrose  are  far 
more  beautiful  in  the  abstract,  but  in  the  Island 
of  Avalon  we  get  back  at  the  heart  of  things, 
come  close  in  touch  with  the  primal  life  of  our 
race  and  Church.  It  should  be  warded  by  im- 
penetrable walls  and  guarded  like  a  sanctuary. 
None  should  enter  except  in  reverence,  and  as 
on  a  pious  pilgrimage;  every  stone  should  be 
cherished  and  preserved,  and  on  certain  days, 

[34] 


GLASTONBURY 

within  the  roofless  chapel  and  where  once  stood 
the  sumptuous  choir,  the  Holy  Sacrifice  should  be 
offered  with  every  accompaniment  of  devotion 
and  expiation  and  the  sacred  spot  hallowed 
again,  instead  of  being  given  over,  as  now,  to 
barnyard  cattle  and  garrulous  "trippers." 

Glastonbury,  the  site  of  the  first  Christian 
church  in  Britain  and  of  the  first  organized  re- 
ligious life,  was  the  most  honoured  and  glorious 
of  all  the  Benedictine  monasteries,  admitting  as 
rivals  only  St.  Albans,  St.  Edmundsbury, 
Westminster  and  Canterbury.  As  it  was  the 
most  famous,  so  was  it  the  richest,  with  an 
annual  revenue  from  its  lands  of  about  one 
hundred  and  seventy-five  thousand  dollars.  The 
church  was  the  largest  in  Great  Britain  and  in 
many  ways  the  noblest.  Princely  in  its  estate, 
it  was  princely  in  its  beneficence  and  hospitality : 
a  thousand  men  were  dependent  on  it  for  the 
maintenance  of  their  families,  no  poor  ever  came 
to  its  doors  and  went  away  hungry :  a  large  num- 
ber of  men  was  constantly  employed  in  its  clois- 
ters illuminating  missals  and  breviaries,  and 
transcribing  not  only  works  of  theology  and  de- 
votion, but  of  classical  and  general  literature. 
The  library  was  the  greatest  in  all  England,  and 
when  Leland  visited  it,  in  the  last  days  of  the 
last  abbot,  he  bears  witness  he  was  so  over- 

[35] 


GLASTONBURY 

whelmed  with  awe  at  the  sight  of  such  vast 
treasures  of  antiquity  that  for  a  time  he  dared 
not  enter.  To  Henry  and  Cromwell  a  treasure- 
house  such  as  this  was  of  no  value :  we  read  in  the 
official  accounts  time  after  time  how  certain  "old 
bookes  in  the  choir"  of  some  proud  monastery 
were  sold  for  6d  or  Sd  ($1.20  or  $1.60).*  John 
Bale,  a  contemporary,  has  recorded  the  sale  of 
"two  noble  libraries  for  forty  shillings  price" 
($100).  These  books  were  illuminated  quartos 
and  folios  on  vellum  and  parchment,  bound  in 
richly  tooled  skin  and  mounted  with  silver  and 
gold:  they  were  mostly  bought  by  grocers  and 
soap-sellers  to  be  used  as  wrappings,  or,  in  the 
case  of  books  printed  on  paper,  for  kindling  fires. 
Many  ship-loads  were  sent  out  of  the  country  to 
Continental  book-binders,  and  this  fact  may  give 
some  idea  of  the  immense  number  of  books  des- 
troyed, as  well  as  that  other  which  shows  that  the 
thrifty  soul  who  bought  the" two  noble  libraries" 
for  $100  used  the  priceless  tomes  "  instead  of  gray 
paper  by  the  space  of  more  than  these  ten  years, 
and  yet  he  hath  store  enough  for  as  many  years 
to  come."  As  a  result  of  this  singular  barbar- 
ism, we  know  very  little  either  of  the  various 
English  liturgical  "uses,"  or  the  quite  remark- 

*  NOTE.  —  The  purchasing  power  of  a  pound  sterling  was,  in  the  six- 
teenth century,  from  ten  to  twelve  times  what  it  is  now.  —  AUTHOR. 

[36] 


GLASTONBURY 

able  school  of  national  religious  music.  More 
than  two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  Missals, 
Ordinals,  Antiphonals  and  Graduals  were  thus 
destroyed,  and  the  loss  liturgically,  archseologi- 
cally,  and  artistically  is  irreparable.* 

Of  the  worldly  estate  of  Glastonbury  we  find 
an  absorbing  account  in  the  Chronicles  of 
William  of  Malmesbury:  here  we  read  how 
Michael,  the  forty-sixth  abbot,  dying  in  1253, 
left  the  abbey  with  892  oxen,  60  bullocks,  233 
cows,  6,717  sheep,  and  327  swine,  to  quote  only 
a  few  items:  how  during  the  abbacy  of  Adam 
Sodbury,  fifty-third  in  the  succession,  Edward 
III.  and  Queen  Philippa,  with  a  vast  retinue 
of  nobles,  were  magnificently  entertained  at  an 
expense  to  the  monastery  of  more  than  $80,000 ; 
and  how  one  after  the  other,  fifty-nine  in  all, 
the  abbots  bought  land,  and  extended  and  em- 
bellished the  enormous  church,  adding  chapels, 
altars,  statues,  sacred  vessels  and  vestments 
until  the  mere  enumeration  is  like  a  tale  from 
the  "Arabian  Nights."  Walter  Taunton,  for 
instance,  the  fifty-second  abbot, "  made  the  Pulpit 
in  the  Church,  with  ten  Images,  the  Crucifix, 
Mary  and  John.  He  also  gave  to  the  Treasury 
the  underwritten  Ornaments;  viz.,  ten  em- 
broidered copes,  the  first  whereof,  being  the 

*  See  Maskell's  "  Monumenta  Ritualia." 

[37] 


GLASTONBURY 

richest,  contains  the  history  of  Christ's  Passion, 
the  ground  being  Gold,  and  of  a  Jasper  Colour," 
etc.;  also  he  gave,  among  other  things,  "three 
embroidered  suits,"  two  chasubles,  "five  pair 
of  vestments,"  "ten  rich  embroidered  Ante- 
pendiums  with  a  pulpit  cloth,"  two  carpets, 
two  silver  candlesticks,  silver  basons,  dishes, 
porringers,  and  spoons,  and  many  books,  in- 
cluding "the  new  Digest  of  the  Civil  Law,  with 
Clasps."  What  became  of  this  marvellous  store 
is  indicated  by  a  contemporary  chronicler. 
"Many  private  men's  parlours  were  hung  with 
altar-cloths,  their  tables  and  beds  covered  with 
copes,  .  .  .  many  made  carrousing  cups  of  the 
sacred  chalices.  ...  It  was  a  sorry  house,  and 
not  worth  the  naming,  which  had  not  somewhat 
of  this  furniture  in  it,  though  it  were  only  a  pair 
of  large  cushions  made  of  a  cope  or  altar-cloth."  * 
Such  was  the  Abbey  of  St.  Mary  in  Glaston- 
bury,  the  first  and  greatest  house  of  the  oldest 
and  most  famous  monastic  order.  First  in 
England  in  point  of  time,  the  Benedictines 
maintained  their  supremacy  until  the  end.  The 
most  noble  of  all  the  abbeys  were  theirs :  Glaston- 
bury,  St.  Edmundsbury,  St.  Mary's,  York.  Of 
the  houses  of  lesser  importance,  St.  Albans, 
Gloucester,  Peterborough,  Westminster  (for  a 

*Heylin:  "Ecclesia  Restaurata." 

[38] 


GLASTONBURY 

brief  period),  Durham,  Ely,  Norwich,  Rochester, 
Worcester,  Winchester,  Exeter,  and  Bath  be- 
came secular  cathedrals,  but  none,  not  even 
Gloucester  or  Westminster,  was  to  be  compared 
in  solemn  and  perfect  architecture  with  some  of 
those  that  have  passed  away  forever,  and  chief  - 
est  of  these  was  Glastonbury. 

Of  St.  Edmundsbury,  St.  Augustine  of  Canter- 
bury, Battle  Abbey  and  Evesham,  not  one  stone 
of  the  churches  themselves  remains  upon  an- 
other, and  there  is  nothing  to  tear  our  hearts 
with  visions  of  an  architectural  glory  that  is  gone 
forever.  One  could  almost  wish  that  the  same 
fate  had  befallen  Glastonbury,  and  that  a  green 
field  lay  wide  and  undefiled  over  the  place  of 
its  sepulture.  As  it  is,  there  is  just  enough, 
and  that  in  so  shameful  case,  to  fill  one  with 
regret  and  insatiable  desire.  The  unroofed  and 
dishonoured  chapel  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the 
fragment  of  aisle  wall,  the  crumbling  stones  of 
the  choir,  above  all  the  two  Titan  piers  of  the 
chancel  arch,  these  are  so  faultless  in  their  pro- 
portions, so  wonderful  in  style,  so  marvellous 
in  workmanship,  that  to  the  architect  they  are 
maddening  almost  beyond  endurance. 

Previous  to  the  great  fire  of  1184,  which 
destroyed  the  entire  monastery,  including  the 
little  and  most  sacred  First  Church,  of  St.  Joseph 

[39] 


of  Arimathea,  many  churches  had  risen  east- 
ward of  the  Vetusta  Ecclesia,  one  having  been 
built  by  Ine,  King  of  the  West  Saxons;  another 
by  St.  Dunstan;  a  third  by  Turstan,  the  first 
of  the  Norman  abbots,  in  1082.  This  latter 
was  unfinished  at  the  time  Herlewin  came  to 
the  chair,  and  believing  the  plan  insufficiently 
magnificent,  he  swept  it  away  and  began  a 
much  grander  edifice  in  the  year  1101.  Abbot 
Siegfried,  his  successor,  reigned  but  six  years, 
and  was  followed  by  Henry  of  Blois,  a  monk  of 
Cluny,  of  the  blood  royal,  and  withal  "a  Man 
renouned  for  much  Literature  and  adorned  with 
commendable  Behaviour.  Through  his  Indus- 
try the  Church  of  Glastonbury  obtained  so 
many  Advantages  that  his  Memory  will  there- 
fore deservedly  flourish  in  the  same  forever." 
He  rebuilt  all  the  monastery  except  the  two 
churches,  and  enriched  the  treasury  with  num- 
berless books,  sacred  vessels,  and  vestments. 
During  his  abbacy  the  marvellous  "Sapphire 
Altar,"  given  by  St.  David  of  Wales  and  lost 
since  the  Danish  invasion,  when  it  was  hidden 
for  safe-keeping,  was  recovered  and  "Magnifi- 
cently adorned  with  Gold,  Silver  and  precious 
Stones,  as  it  is  to  be  seen  to  this  Day." 

On  the  death  of  Henry,  the  golden  days  were 
succeeded  by  a  period  of  storm.     Between  the 

[40] 


GLASTONBURY 

Bishop  of  Bath  and  King  Henry  II.,  the  abbey 
suffered  grievously,  and  as  a  crowning  calamity 
came  the  fire  of  1184,  which  swept  everything 
away.  Then,  "King  Henry,  taking  Compas- 
sion on  the  Monks,"  charged  Ralph,  his  cham- 
berlain, to  administer  the  abbey,  and  rebuild  it 
on  the  most  splendid  scale,  which  the  worthy 
Ralph,  who  appears  to  have  been  a  man  of 
singularly  noble  character,  as  well  as  a  great 
architect,  forthwith  proceeded  to  do.  Practi- 
cally all  that  remains  is  his  work.  So  well  did 
he  acquit  himself  of  his  task,  that  no  further 
architectural  additions  were  necessary  for  several 
centuries,  though  kings  and  abbots  continued 
to  load  the  monastery  with  books,  ornaments, 
and  vestments  until  it  was  richer  than  ever  be- 
fore. In  1322,  however,  Adam  Sodbury  became 
abbot,  and  a  new  epoch  opened  that  continued 
without  abatement  until  the  end.  Adam  was 
a  princely  patron  of  art;  he  "adorned  the  High 
Altar  with  a  large  Image  of  the  Mother  of  God, 
and  a  Tabernacle  of  notable  Workmanship." 
Also  he  erected  other  altars  and  chapels,  added 
many  statues  and  shrines  to  the  whole  church, 
and  finally  rebuilt  the  vault  of  the  entire  nave, 
"and  curiously  adorned  it  with  pictures."  His 
gifts  of  vestments,  sacred  vessels,  and  relics  were 
enormous:  among  them  we  read  of  "a  Blue 

[41] 


GLASTONBURY 

Cope,  with  several  Beasts  wove  in  it  with  Gold, 
and  curiously  embroidered  with  silver  butter- 
flies," of  chasubles  of  "red  Satin  embroidered 
with  several  histories  of  Saints,"  of  others  cov- 
ered with  embroidered  and  jewelled  coats  of 
arms,  and  even  of  one  of  "Green  Silk  with 
Finny  Fishes  and  Gold  Birds"!  Walter  Mon- 
ington,  who  succeeded  him  in  1341,  added  two 
bays  to  the  choir,  the  walls  of  which  he  raised, 
and  roofed  the  whole,  probably  with  some 
form  of  fan-vaulting:  he  also  built  the  great 
retro-choir  witn  its  five  altars.  John  Chin- 
nock,  his  successor  in  1374,  continued  the  great 
work  and  rebuilt  the  cloisters,  dormitory,  and 
fratry,  and  extended  and  enriched  the  refectory 
and  chapter  house.  Richard  Beere,  who  suc- 
ceeded to  the  abbacy  in  1495,  again  took  up 
the  labour  of  "gilding  refined  gold,"  happily 
ignorant  of  the  fact  that  before  his  plans  could 
be  carried  out  the  whole  fabric  would  be  hurled 
into  fragments  by  gunpowder,  the  graves  of 
saints  and  kings  desecrated,  the  lands  given 
over  to  the  destroyers,  and  his  immediate  suc- 
cessor, the  last  Abbot  of  Glastonbury,  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered,  like  the  veriest  felon  of 
the  Kingdom.  Ignorant  of  the  black  fate  then 
looming  large,  he  built  chapels  and  altars  of 
infinite  richness,  founded  a  new  home  for  aged 

[42] 


GLASTONBURY 

women,  and  —  note  the  pathos  of  this  —  fear- 
ing for  the  stability  of  his  adored  church, 
strengthened  and  reinforced  it  in  many  places, 
that  it  might  last  for  yet  other  centuries.  His 
labour  was  lost:  the  great  church  would  have 
stood  well  for  at  least  the  twenty  years  that  yet 
remained  of  its  life. 

HUcfiard  flfll&itinff,  successor  of  St.  Joseph  of 
Arimathea,  St.  Patrick  and  St.  Dunstan,  fifty- 
ninth  and  last  of  the  abbots  of  Glastonbury, 
was  an  old  man  when,  in  1524,  he  took  his 
place  at  the  head  of  the  abbey  as  a  preliminary 
to  his  martyrdom.  No  word  was  ever  said 
against  him:  he  was  renowned  for  the  frugality 
of  his  life,  his  wisdom,  his  gentleness,  and  his 
charity.  He  ruled  an  house  of  an  hundred 
monks  with  three  hundred  lay  associates,  many 
of  whom  were  of  gentle  blood.  He  supported 
a  great  number  of  students  at  the  several  univer- 
sities, and  the  hospitality  of  the  monastery  was 
so  great  it  is  recorded  that  under  him  five 
hundred  knights  were  frequently  entertained  at 
one  time.  The  annual  revenues  of  the  monastery 
were,  as  I  have  said,  not  less  than  one  hundred 
and  seventy-five  thousand  dollars,  and  the  store 
of  plate  and  jewels  almost  fabulous.  Henry 
needed  all  this;  and  on  Friday,  September  19, 
1539,  the  royal  "visitors,"  headed  by  the 

[43] 


GLASTONBURY 

infamous  Layton,  appeared  at  Glastonbury 
demanding  the  immediate  surrender  of  every- 
thing into  the  king's  hands.  They  searched  the 
abbot's  apartments  and  found  there  "a  written 
book  of  arguments  against  the  divorce  of  the 
King's  majesty  and  the  lady  dowager,  which 
we  take  it  to  be  a  great  matter,  as  also  divers 
pardons,  copies  of  bulls,  and  the  counterfeit  life 
of  Thomas  Becket  in  print:  but  we  could  not 
find  any  letter  that  was  material."* 

These  terrible  evidences  of  "guilt"  and  the 
unrecorded  answers  to  the  inquisition  of  the 
"visitors"  showed  plainly  enough  the  aged 
abbot's  "cankered  and  traitorous  mind  against 
the  King's  majesty  and  his  succession,"  and  so 
they  sent  him,  "being  but  a  weak  man  and 
sickly,"  to  the  Tower.  Two  months  later  he 
was  haled  back  to  Wells  to  be  "tried"  before  a 
jury  made  up  of  men  who  knew  that  the  refusal 
of  a  verdict  of  "guilty"  meant  death  to  each  and 
all  of  them.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Cromwell 
has  recorded  in  his  own  handwriting  this  note: 
"Item.  The  Abbot  of  Glaston  to  be  tried  at 
Glaston  and  executed  there."  In  other  words, 
the  sentence  preceded  the  trial.  On  the  next 
day,  November  15,  1539,  Richard  Whiting, 
Abbot  of  Glastonbury  and  peer  of  England, 

*  From  the  letter  of  the  Commissioners  to  Crumwell. 

[44] 


GLASTONBURY 

old,  feeble,  and  racked  by  his  imprisonment  in 
the  Tower,  was  dragged  on  an  hurdle  to  the  top 
of  Tor  hill,  where  "he  took  his  death  very 
patiently."  Then  his  head  was  stuck  up  over 
the  monastery  gate,  and  the  quarters  of  his 
body  were  distributed  between  Wells,  Bath, 
Ilchester,  and  Bridgewater.  Glastonbury  Abbey 
had  ceased  to  exist. 

So  complete  has  been  the  destruction  of  this 
that  was  once  the  proudest  church  in  all  Eng- 
land, there  is  little  to  say  of  it  architecturally. 
Apart  from  the  awful  grandeur  of  the  choir 
piers,  the  forlorn  ruins  make  little  appeal  to 
any  except  architects  and  archaeologists.  For 
them,  there  is  no  more  important  ruin  in  Eng- 
land, for  it  is  couched  in  terms  of  the  earliest 
transition  from  Norman  to  "Early  English," 
and  is  of  a  severe  and  classical  type  hardly  to 
be  met  with  elsewhere.  It  is  all  Ralph's  work, 
all  but  a  few  tottering  panels  high  in  the  choir, 
that  date  from  the  time  of  Abbot  Walter  Mon- 
ington.  The  chapel  of  the  Blessed  Virgin  is 
earliest  in  date,  and  is  round-arched  through- 
out; but  the  carving  of  the  original  doorways, 
now  blackened  and  crumbling  from  long  con- 
tinued and  perfectly  wilful  bonfires,  and  that 
of  the  bosses  and  capitals  of  the  interior,  is 
more  beautiful  than  anything  that  followed  for 

[45] 


GLASTONBURY 

many  years  after.  It  is  purely  and  exquisitely 
Gothic,  fresh,  crisp,  full  of  the  assurance  and 
insight  of  perfectly  competent  artists.  In  the 
church  itself,  Ralph  has  adopted  the  pointed 
arch,  half-heartedly  at  first,  later  with  con- 
viction. Everywhere,  however,  are  fine,  broad 
surfaces,  masterly  clusterings  of  verticals,  grave 
restraint  and  supremely  intelligent  accentuation. 
The  workmanship  is  of  the  highest  type  to  be 
found  in  England  in  any  period.  Here,  alone, 
all  the  powers  of  crescent  art  seem  to  have  met 
together  to  strike  out  at  once  the  type  of  perfect 
building.  Elsewhere,  and  only  too  often,  we 
find  in  England  workmanship  of  the  poorest, 
but  here,  as  though  the  supreme  holiness  of  the 
ground  sanctified  their  labours,  Ralph  and  his 
masons  glorified  God,  not  only  through  the 
beauty  of  art,  but  through  faultless  workman- 
ship as  well. 

If  I  were  asked  to  name  the  three  most  per- 
fect examples  of  architecture  that  ever  existed 
in  England,  I  think  I  should  say  Glastonbury, 
St.  Mary's,  York,  and  Guisborough,  and  of 
these  three  only  shattered  fragments  now  re- 
main. Had  they  been  left  us  it  would  be 
impossible  for  critics  to  lift  eyebrows  at  English 
Gothic,  but  they  are  practically  gone:  the  de- 
stroyers did  their  work  to  the  king's  taste,  and 

[46] 


GLASTONBURY 

in  a  few  weeks  the  labour  of  generations,  the 
proudest  records  of  English  glory,  were  hurled 
crashing  into  dust.  At  Glastonbury  the  ex- 
quisitely chiselled  stones  of  the  church  itself, 
the  lacy  tracery  of  the  chapels,  shrines,  and 
tombs,  the  shattered  statues  and  shivered  glass 
from  the  painted  windows,  were  hauled  away 
and  used  to  build  a  common  causeway  across 
the  marshes.  It  was  indeed  the  end. 


[47] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

FROM  the  low-lying  meadows  of  Somer- 
set to  the  wild  and  wind-swept  northern 
cliffs  that  frown  on  the  German  ocean 
is  a  long  step,  but  here  also  are  the  beginnings 
of  things  to  be;  not  so  old  by  five  hundred 
years,  nor  yet  so  meshed  in  legends  and  visions, 
and,  if  you  like,  fantastic  fables,  but  venerable 
indeed,  and  deeply  significant.  Here,  where 
the  sudden  cliffs  break  down  into  the  ever- 
thundering  sea  and  crabbed  islands  lift  bravely 
out  of  tempestuous  breakers,  lashed  by  tumultu- 
ous winds  and  drenched  by  sea-spume  and 
swirling  fog,  here  were  established  the  first 
outposts  of  the  Catholic  Faith  in  the  North,  in 
the  year  of  our  Lord  635,  when  Oswald,  King 
of  Northumbria,  called  St.  Aidan  from  his 
monastery  of  St.  Columba.  Ten  years  before, 
Oswald's  uncle,  Eadwine,  asking  the  hand  of 
the  daughter  of  the  Christian  King  of  Kent, 
had  gained  with  his  queen  a  Christian  bishop 
and  missionary  in  the  person  of  St.  Paulinus, 
one  of  the  companions  of  St.  Augustine,  but 

[48] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

sudden  war  had  extinguished  the  flickering 
flame,  and  St.  Aidan  came  to  kindle  it  anew. 

It  was  a  wild  and  barbarous  land  and  a  wild 
and  barbarous  society  into  which  he  came.  It 
is  told  that  the  first  missionary  bishop  from 
lona  became  discouraged  within  a  year,  and 
returned  to  his  monastery,  declaring  the  North- 
umbrians invincible  in  their  heathenism.  Up 
rose  on  the  word  a  monk  named  Aidan,  crying, 
"Was  it  their  stubbornness,  or  your  severity?" 
Whereupon  the  entire  chapter  acclaimed  him 
as  the  true  Bishop  of  Northumbria,  which  he 
became  indeed,  and  a  saint  as  well. 

Barbarous  the  people  undoubtedly  were,  but 
King  Oswald  was  a  man  of  splendid  character, 
and  the  alliance  of  saint  and  king  was  invincible. 
Backed  by  royal  favour  and  heartened  by  royal 
co-operation,  Aidan,  drawn  by  love  of  his  island 
of  lona,  sought  out  that  other  island  of  Lindis- 
farne  lying  close  inshore,  and  established  there 
his  new  monastery.  Rome  had  been  evan- 
gelizing the  south;  now  the  Celtic  Church  took 
hold  on  the  north,  and  with  equal  success. 
Between  the  two,  in  all  matters  of  government, 
there  was  a  great  gulf,  and  the  difference  went 
further  even  than  this.  The  Celtic  Church 
followed  an  older  reckoning  of  Easter,  and  in  other 
ways  held  by  the  standards  of  the  East;  but  the 

[49] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

greatest  difference  lay  in  the  entire  mode  of 
organization,  for  while  in  the  south  Rome  was 
building  up  a  superb  and  competent  organism, 
masterly,  logical,  and  orderly,  a  veritable  Civitas 
Dei,  St.  Columba  and  the  Celts  had  bred  a  great 
missionary  Church,  in  which  the  bishops  had 
become  hardly  more  than  channels  through 
which  the  sacraments  of  ordination  and  con- 
firmation were  administered,  without  territorial 
jurisdiction  or  any  very  real  administrative 
authority,  while  the  whole  power  and  purpose 
of  the  Church  were  concentrated  in  monastic 
orders;  aggregations  of  zealous  missionaries 
conquering  through  their  consecrated  enthu- 
siasm. As  the  Rev.  H.  J.  D.  Astley  has  said 
in  speaking  of  the  Celtic  Church:  "It  could 
arouse,  but  it  could  not  maintain:  it  could  win, 
but  it  could  not  govern.  The  combination  of 
Celtic  self-sacrifice  and  zeal  with  the  discipline 
and  culture  of  Rome  was  needed  before  the 
English  Church  could  awake  to  the  full  respon- 
sibilities of  her  mission.  The  Celtic  Church, 
tribal  and  monastic,  was  wanting  in  the  sense 
of  unity  and  Catholicity.  Without  the  help  of 
Rome  there  could  never  have  been  built  up  in 
England  a  great  organic  and  cultured  Church, 
able  to  hold  its  own  among  the  storms  of  Chris- 
tendom. Without  the  help  of  the  saints  of 

[50] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

lona  and  Lindisfarne,  that  Church  would  have 
been  but  a  mechanism  of  bone  and  flesh,  want- 
ing the  life-giving  soul." 

For  thirty  years  St.  Aidan  and  his  successors 
ruled  in  the  island  monastery,  winning  the 
kingdom  to  Christianity;  and  then,  in  664,  came 
the  epoch-marking  Synod  of  Streonshalh,  where 
the  Celtic  Church  very  wisely  yielded  to  Roman 
law  and  order,  and  Abbot  Colman,  still  uncon- 
vinced, retired  with  his  friends  and  the  relics 
of  St.  Aidan  to  lona,  to  be  succeeded  five  years 
later  by  St.  Cuthbert,  the  glory  of  northern 
England.  For  an  hundred  years  the  monastery 
continued,  revivified  by  the  spirit  of  Cuthbert, 
and  then,  almost  without  warning,  fell  the  storm 
of  Danish  invasion,  and  the  Abbey  of  Lindis- 
farne was  utterly  extinguished,  the  body  of  St. 
Cuthbert  being  borne  across  the  narrow  waters 
by  the  fleeing  monks  in  the  glare  of  conflagra- 
tion, to  travel  for  seven  years  of  pilgrimage 
until  it  found  its  final  resting  place  in  the  great 
Abbey  of  Durham. 

Of  the  Celtic  monastery,  not  one  stone  re- 
mains: the  solemn  ruins  are  those  of  a  Bene- 
dictine priory,  raised  in  the  eleventh  century 
by  a  cell  of  monks  from  Whitby,  who  deter- 
mined to  repossess  themselves  of  the  island  of 
Lindisfarne,  now  known  as  Holy  Island,  by 

[51] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

reason  of  the  consecration  given  it  by  the  lives 
of  St.  Aidan,  St.  Cuthbert,  and  the  many 
martyrs  who  perished  at  the  hands  of  the  Viking 
invaders.  For  three  centuries  the  land  had 
lain  desolate,  yet  it  was  redeemed  at  last.  For 
three  centuries  and  a  half  the  same  desolation 
has  existed  since  the  last  prior,  Thomas  Sparke, 
with  his  handful  of  dispossessed  brothers,  went 
out  into  the  world  at  the  bidding  of  Henry 
VIII.,  who  needed  their  pitiful  yearly  income 
of  three  thousand  dollars.  What  has  been  once 
may  be  again,  but  when  the  new  missionaries 
go  back  to  restore  in  Holy  Island  the  life  of 
ordered  consecration,  they  will  not  find  it  bar- 
ren of  every  vestige  of  a  great  past,  but  dignified 
by  noble  ruins  that  have  defied  time  and  tide 
and  the  wrath  of  man. 

For  Lindisfarne,  though  comparatively  small, 
is  well  preserved,  as  English  abbeys  go.  It  was 
sturdily  built  of  strong  red  sandstone  laboriously 
brought  from  the  mainland,  and  in  a  fashion 
well  calculated  to  withstand  the  shock  of  storm 
and  the  ferocity  of  the  invader.  One  thing  it 
was  not  proof  against:  the  cupidity  of  spoilers, 
who  rived  the  lead  from  the  roofs,  and  the  roofs 
from  the  walls,  until  all  stood  bare  and  desolate. 
Then  followed  century  after  century  of  neglect 
and  petty  pilfering.  The  great  red  walls  have 

[52] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

crumbled  and  fallen  away,  the  tower  has  sunk 
into  rubble,  the  vaults  have  vanished,  but  much 
has  yet  remained,  while  the  incredible  glories 
of  Osney  and  Evesham  and  Beaulieu  have  be- 
come but  a  dim  whisper,  echoing  out  of  oblivion. 
Such  as  it  is,  Lindisfarne  is  strong  English 
Norman  after  the  type  of  Durham,  in  the  pattern 
of  which  it  was  fashioned.  Scott,  a  great  roman- 
cist  but  a  most  inferior  archaeologist,  says, 

"In  Saxon  strength  that  Abbey  frowned"; 

but  there  is  no  Saxon  here,  only  honest  Norman 
as  the  English  workmen  fancied  it  to  be,  and  in 
their  hands  it  was  good  indeed,  for  even  at  this 
beginning  of  things  they  were  not  content  to 
copy  the  work  of  France,  but  from  the  first 
modified,  translated,  enriched,  always  making 
the  first  Norman  and  the  following  Gothic  of 
whatever  period  distinctive  and  national.  Lindis- 
farne is  all  very  strong  and  frank  and  manly,  an 
Englishman's  abbey,  and,  except  for  its  fifteenth 
century  sanctuary,  perfect  and  untouched,  per- 
haps the  most  complete  example  of  eleventh 
century  architecture  in  England.  It  is  little 
visited,  for  few  trains  stop  at  the  station  from 
which  one  must  cross  by  boat,  or,  at  low  tide, 
fearsomely  on  foot,  to  the  yellow  island  with  its 
ruddy  crown.  Yet  Holy  Island  is  well  worth 

[53] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

visiting,  for  it  is  a  strange  and  barren  spot, 
wind-swept  and  wet  with  spray  and  spume, 
though  glowing  in  sunlight  with  a  deep  splendour 
that  is  full  of  melancholy.  And  the  feet  of  St. 
Aidan  and  St.  Cuthbert  trod  every  inch  of  its 
surface,  making  it  indeed  "Holy  Island"  forever. 
Lindisfarne,  in  spite  of  its  grim  architecture, 
is  gentle  and  ingratiating,  but  Whitby,  on  the 
other  hand,  so  near  in  fact,  so  intimately  mingled 
in  its  history  with  Holy  Island,  is  the  very  haunt 
of  terror  and  dismay.  And  for  this  there  seems 
no  visible  reason ;  it  was  never  blasted  by  tragedy 
as  was  Glastonbury;  it  came  to  its  end  in  com- 
parative peace,  being  tamely  surrendered  to 
Crumwell  by  the  last  Abbot,  Henry  de  Vail,  in 
December,  1539.  Unlike  so  many  of  its  sister 
monasteries,  it  was  left  to  a  lingering  death. 
The  altars  were  destroyed,  the  roof  torn  away 
and  sold,  the  plate,  bells,  and  ornaments  went 
into  the  coffers  of  the  king,  but  the  fabric  of  the 
church  itself  was  never  destroyed  by  man, 
though  every  trace  of  the  conventual  buildings 
was  swept  away,  the  materials  going  to  the 
building  of  a  singularly  hideous  house  on  the 
site  of  the  abbot's  lodgings.  The  great  church, 
one  of  the  many  glories  of  mediaeval  England, 
was  left  to  crumble  slowly  into  dust.  Perhaps 
this  very  fact  is  responsible  for  the  atmosphere  of 

[54] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

gloom  that  surrpunds  the  gaunt  ruins,  the  evi- 
dences of  slow  dissolution  so  terribly  evident 
and  even  now  in  process  of  accomplishment. 
It  is  a  wild  and  barren  height,  this  cliff  over  the 
North  Sea,  and  the  racked  walls,  trembling 
under  the  fierce  onslaughts  of  the  wind,  the 
whirl  of  sand  dashed  upward  from  the  shingle, 
two  hundred  and  fifty  feet  below,  the  screaming 
of  seabirds  as  they  slide  down  the  wind  through 
the  blank  lancets  of  clerestory  and  transepts,  the 
black  shadow  under  the  single  choir  aisle,  the 
heaped-up  piles  of  shattered  masonry,  even 
the  long  and  barren  reaches  of  harsh  moor 
stretching  downward  to  the  east,  all  combine  to 
create  an  atmosphere  of  forlorn  depression  that 
is  quite  unusual  among  the  abbeys,  and  quite 
unjustified  by  recorded  history. 

Perhaps  the  approach  to  Whitby,  as  we  saw 
it,  has  something  to  do  with  it  all,  for,  as  one 
comes  from  Byland  and  Rievaulx,  the  line 
traverses  the  most  abandoned  and  desolate  area 
of  country  in  all  England,  a  ghastly  black  valley, 
gaunt  and  poisonous,  the  very  land  of  Childe 
Roland's  pilgrimage,  and,  as  we  saw  it  in  a 
sinister  twilight,  quite  enough  to  becloud  the 
days  for  some  time  to  come.  Whitby  itself  is 
cheerful  enough,  a  gay  little  town  full  of  vivid 
personality,  but  even  this  was  not  enough  to 

[55] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

wash  out  the  memory  of  the  "bog  clay  and 
rubble,  sand  and  stark  black  dearth,"  through 
which  we  had  travelled  the  night  before.  A 
strange  place  for  a  monastery,  this  breathless 
cliff  in  the  lair  of  all  the  winds.  Rievaulx  was 
close  behind  in  memory,  a  very  glade  in  Para- 
dise, type  of  the  haunts  of  the  shelter-loving 
monks,  but  this  fierce  hilltop,  seemingly  on 
the  very  brink  of  chaos,  was  a  new  note  and 
unexpected. 

Crossing  the  crowded  little  river,  after  thread- 
ing narrow  streets  where  "Whitby  jet"  is  much 
in  evidence,  one  mounts  to  the  great  ruins  by 
breakneck  steps,  past  the  well-chiselled  Celtic 
cross  in  memory  of  Caedmon,  first  of  English 
poets  and  a  monk  of  Whitby;  past  the  stunted 
church  of  St.  Mary,  once  a  fine  twelfth  century 
building,  now  hideously  desecrated  and  made 
ridiculous  by  seventeenth  and  nineteenth  cen- 
tury abominations,  and  so  to  the  desolate, 
rocky  waste  where  a  mutilated  cross  marks  the 
once  hallowed  site  of  the  monks'  graveyard. 
From  here  the  splintered,  spire-like  fragments 
tower  gloomily  against  the  sun,  and  the  grim- 
ness  is  not  lessened  as  one  clambers  through 
the  breeched  wall  of  the  north  aisle  and  emerges 
into  the  rough  wilderness  of  heaped-up  debris 
that  fills  the  space  of  the  demolished  nave. 

[56] 


Whitby — Where  the  winds  have  gnawed  at  will. 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

The  effect  is  curious,  for  while  much  of  the 
north  side  of  the  abbey  remains,  practically 
all  on  the  south  has  been  swept  away,  and  over 
the  tumbled  hillocks  of  weed-grown  stones  one 
looks  far  out  to  the  south  along  dreary  reaches 
of  desolate  moor,  empty  of  any  life. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  architecture  of  Whitby 
Abbey  that  in  itself  breeds  the  unmistakable 
feeling  of  gloom  and  reserve  that  falls  on  one  in 
the  shadow  of  its  disintegrating  walls:  quite  the 
contrary,  indeed,  for  it  is  all  of  the  best  period, 
a  sunny  and  supple  Early  English,  modulating 
into  the  best  type  of  late  Decorated.  This  is 
one  of  those  many  buildings  the  destruction 
of  which  has  wrought  such  irreparable  injury 
to  the  credit  of  English  Gothic.  Salisbury, 
except  for  its  fine  plan  and  well  balanced  mass, 
one  of  the  most  discreditable  examples  of  early 
Gothic  in  Great  Britain,  remains  almost  intact, 
except  for  most  curiously  unintelligent  "restora- 
tion"; but  Whitby,  almost  faultless  in  its  archi- 
tectural style,  and  worthy  to  rank  with  St. 
Mary's,  York,  and  Guisborough,  has  been 
suffered  to  crumble  away  in  criminal  neglect, 
when  its  preservation  would  have  meant  in- 
calculable things  to  the  history  of  English 
architecture. 

The  choir,  which  is  earliest  in  time,  is  singu- 
[57] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

larly  noble  in  its  reserve  and  its  classical  pro- 
portions, but  the  north  transept  is  finer  yet,  for 
it  marks  that  perfect  point  when  early  English 
was  just  merging  into  Geometrical,  and  it  pre- 
serves all  the  highly  developed  qualities  of  the 
former,  without  manifesting,  as  yet,  any  of  the 
final  defects  of  the  latter.  Everything  is  strong, 
sure,  masterly;  pure  English,  pure  Gothic;  work 
that  might  be  unafraid  to  stand  side  by  side 
with  anything  else  that  has  been  left  us  from 
mediaeval  times.  What  the  nave  may  have 
been  it  is  impossible  to  say  definitely:  at  least  it 
was  supremely  good;  this  much  is  proved  by 
the  weather-worn  wall  of  the  north  aisle,  with 
its  tottering  window  tracery  of  an  unusual  and 
brilliantly  beautiful  type.  No  trace  of  the  nave 
arcade  or  clerestory  remains,  but  the  great 
ridges  of  grass-grown  debris  may  perhaps  con- 
ceal enough  to  make  possible  a  restoration,  on 
paper  at  least,  of  the  order,  and  one's  fingers  itch 
to  dig  into  the  big  heaps  and  discover  what  they 
now  conceal.  Whitby  and  Rievaulx  are  almost 
alone  among  the  greater  abbeys  in  possessing 
these  mountains  of  fallen  masonry  as  yet  un- 
touched, and  the  temptation  they  inspire  is 
almost  irresistible. 

Altogether,  Whitby  must  have  been  a  singu- 
larly consistent  and  united  design,  a  church  of 

[58] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

the  best  phases  of  the  best  periods,  a  witness 
to  the  essential  greatness  of  English  Gothic 
from  the  thirteenth  to  the  fifteenth  centuries. 
We  could  have  better  spared  many  of  the  well- 
known  cathedrals,  now  the  objects  of  pious 
artistic  pilgrimage.  The  story  of  the  slow  de- 
cay of  this  most  noble  church  is  particularly 
distressing,  for  it  has  perished  by  sheer  neglect. 
From  the  Suppression  until  the  middle  of  the 
seventeenth  century  the  great  fabric,  together 
with  the  monastic  buildings,  remained  practi- 
cally intact,  so  far  as  their  masonry  was  con- 
cerned: then,  in  those,  the  real  "dark  ages"  of 
England,  the  latter  were  pulled  down  to  form 
material  for  the  existing  mansion,  and  it  is 
probable  that  at  the  same  time  the  south  wall 
of  the  choir  aisle,  and  possibly  the  south  tran- 
sept, were  destroyed,  to  the  same  end.  In 
1763  the  south  wall  of  the  nave  was  blown 
down  in  a  memorable  tempest:  in  1804  the  north 
wall  fell:  in  1830  the  great  central  tower  col- 
lapsed in  the  midst  of  a  dead  calm,  and  nine 
years  later  a  portion  of  the  choir  wall  fell. 
About  the  same  date  the  west  front,  with  its 
vast  Perpendicular  window,  crashed  down  on 
the  west  porch  with  its  great  flight  of  stately 
steps,  and  the  ruin  had  become  complete. 
Fifty  years  later,  when  little  was  left  to  save, 

[59] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

the  owner  of  the  abbey  lands,  Colonel  Cholm- 
ley,  set  about  staying  the  general  wreck,  and 
since  then  the  shattered  fabric  has  stood  safe, 
though  for  how  much  longer  it  will  stand  one 
cannot  say.  The  wind  sweeps  at  will  through 
every  opening,  and,  laden  with  cutting  sand,  is 
steadily  gnawing  away  the  soft  red  stone;  at 
any  time  all  that  remains  may  sink  in  final 
destruction,  and  the  last  vestiges  of  another 
national  monument  will  be  lost  to  England 
forever. 

Whitby  Abbey  owes  its  existence  in  the  first 
instance  to  Oswiu,  brother  of  the  royal  saint, 
King  Oswald,  who  was  St.  Aidan's  protector. 
Penda,  the  heathen  King  of  Mercia,  who  had 
slain  King  Oswald  in  battle,  had  matched  him- 
self against  Oswiu,  and  the  latter,  on  the  eve 
of  the  great  battle  of  Winwsedfield,  vowed  that 
if  God  gave  him  victory,  he  would  build  a  great 
monastery  and  as  well  consecrate  his  little 
daughter  Elfleda  to  the  religious  life.  So  indeed  it 
befell  in  the  year  657,  and  the  little  princess  was 
given  into  St.  Hilda's  hands.  Simultaneously  was 
begun  the  new  foundation  at  Whitby,  of  old 
called  Streonshalh,  a  great  double  monastery 
for  both  monks  and  nuns,  and  over  both  the 
lady  Hilda  was  set  as  abbess.  Under  her  wise 
direction,  Whitby  shortly  became  the  great 

[60] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

centre  of  learning  and  religion  in  the  north 
country.  Through  her  favour  and  sympathy, 
the  clumsy  "cowherd  from  whose  lips  flowed  the 
first  great  English  song,"  Caedmon,  the  monk, 
interpreted  the  Bible  to  the  unlearned  by  means 
of  wonderful  poetic  rhapsodies;  St.  Cuthbert 
and  numberless  famous  abbots,  monks,  and 
chroniclers,  became  identified  with  its  name,  and 
at  the  great  Synod  of  Streonshalh  the  step 
was  taken  that  bound  all  Christian  Britain 
under  one  law  and  one  order.  The  issue  was 
joined  between  Rome  and  the  Celtic  Church 
and  definite  action  was  imperative :  to  the  Synod 
came,  in  the  year  664,  Abbot  Colman  in  de- 
fence of  the  Celtic  Church,  Wilfrid  of  York  to 
plead  for  Rome.  St.  Hilda,  as  befitted  a  dis- 
ciple of  the  great  Aidan,  supported  Colman 
ardently;  but  King  Oswiu,  who  presided,  gave 
judgment  in  favour  of  Rome,  declaring  that  the 
authority  of  St.  Peter  was  pre-eminent,  and 
saying:  "I  will  rather  obey  the  porter  of  heaven, 
lest,  when  I  reach  its  gates,  he  who  has  the  keys 
in  his  keeping  turn  his  back  on  me  and  there 
be  none  to  open." 

When  St.  Hilda  died  she  was  succeeded  by 
the  Princess  Elfleda,  who  reigned  over  Whitby 
for  thirty  years,  and  was  followed  by  others  who 
permitted  the  great  abbey  to  lose  nothing  of  its 

[61] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

dignity  and  power.  The  Danes  who  sacked 
Lindisfarne  in  793  stopped  short  of  Whitby, 
but  in  867  another  invasion  swept  over  the  land 
and  Whitby  was  as  utterly  destroyed  as  its 
sister  monastery  on  Holy  Island.  The  relics 
of  St.  Hilda  were  removed  to  Glastonbury,  as 
those  of  St.  Cuthbert  had  been  translated  to 
Durham,  and  for  two  hundred  years  the  sea 
winds  swept  sheer  across  the  blasted  cliff,  un- 
broken by  buttress,  wall,  or  tower,  unmingled 
with  the  sound  of  any  bell. 

Ruined  and  desolate  as  was  the  forsaken 
abbey  of  St.  Hilda,  its  influence  was  still  opera- 
tive, it  would  seem,  for  at  last  upon  a  time  a 
soldier  of  William  the  Norman,  Reinf red,  "  miles 
strenuissimus"  passing  by  on  some  errand  of 
his  master,  halted  by  the  cliff  of  Streonshalh  and, 
" strenuissimus"  as  he  was,  felt  "pricked  to  the 
heart  by  the  tokens  of  ruin  and  desolation," 
and  to  such  good  purpose  that  forthwith  he 
renounced  the  profession  of  arms,  embraced 
the  religious  life,  and,  after  ten  years  of 
training  at  Evesham,  issued  forth,  determined 
to  carry  out  his  cherished  plan  of  establish- 
ing once  more  on  the  windy  cliff  a  monas- 
tery after  the  order  of  St.  Benedict.  With 
him  fared  two  brothers,  Ealdwine,  Prior  of 
Winchcumbe,  and  Oswin;  also  a  patient  ass 

[62] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

to  bear  their  scanty  possessions.  At  Newcastle 
on  Tyne  the  prior  established  himself,  and 
Oswin  remained  in  Jarrow,  Reinfred  alone 
coming  at  last  to  the  site  he  had  picked  out 
for  his  future  work. 

All  three  of  the  hardy  missionaries  prospered 
exceedingly  in  their  labours,  and  Reinfred  espe- 
cially was  so  zealous  and  enthusiastic  that  he 
presently  gathered  a  great  company  about  him, 
and,  with  the  consent  and  favour  of  the  house  of 
Percy,  entered  into  formal  possession  of  the 
sacred  places  on  Whitby  cliff.  William  de 
Percy,  proud,  violent,  yet,  it  would  seem,  pas- 
sionately devout,  and  destined  to  end  his  days 
as  a  Crusader  in  the  Holy  Land,  determined 
that  the  modest  priory  should  grow  into  a  mighty 
abbey,  and  his  prayer  was  granted  by  the  then 
king,  Henry  I.  For  many  years  the  Norse 
Vikings  continued  their  piratical  raids,  but  the 
monks  persisted,  retiring  to  more  sheltered  spots 
when  invasion  threatened,  returning  always  to 
build  and  rebuild,  until  at  last,  with  the  begin- 
ning of  the  fifteenth  century,  Whitby  stood  per- 
fect and  complete,  a  masterpiece  of  noble  and 
exalted  architecture. 

The  Order  of  St.  Benedict,  to  which  the 
monasteries  of  Glastonbury,  Lindisfarne,  and 
Whitby  belonged,  as  well  as  the  two  hundred 

[63] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

and  sixty  other  abbeys,  priories,  convents,  and 
cells  in  England  alone,  was  the  most  ancient, 
as  it  has  been  the  most  enduring,  of  all  forms 
of  western  monachism.  Its  offshoots  have 
been  many,  but  offshoots  they  were,  owing,  all 
of  them,  primal  inspiration  to  the  immortal 
Rule  that  was  given  from  Monte  Cassino 
early  in  the  sixth  century.  It  would  be  im- 
possible to  overstate  the  magnitude  of  the  debt 
the  world  owes  to  St.  Benedict,  and  it  is 
hard  to  believe  that  he  was  not  the  mouth- 
piece of  Divine  revelation.  In  the  year  of  our 
Lord,  480,  and  on  the  day  of  St.  Benedict's 
birth,  chaos,  black  and  unmitigated,  lay  over 
the  world.  "Confusion,  corruption,  despair, 
and  death  were  everywhere;  social  dismember- 
ment seemed  complete.  Authority,  morals, 
laws,  sciences,  arts,  religion  herself,  might 
have  been  supposed  condemned  to  irremedia- 
ble ruin.  .  .  .  The  Church  was  worse  than 
ever  infected  by  heresy,  schisms,  and  divis- 
ions which  the  obscure  successors  of  St.  Leo 
the  Great  in  the  Holy  See  endeavoured  in 
vain  to  repress.  ...  In  temporal  affairs  the 
political  edifice  originated  by  Augustus  —  that 
monster  assemblage  of  two  hundred  millions 
of  human  creatures  'of  whom  not  a  single 
individual  was  entitled  to  call  himself  free,' 

[64] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

was    crumbling  into  dust  under  the  blows  of 
the  Barbarians."* 

In  the  year  494,  a  boy  of  fourteen,  patrician 
by  birth  and  through  his  mother  the  last  scion 
of  the  Lords  of  Nursia,  rose  up  and  went  away 
from  the  horrors  of  a  crumbling  world,  to  hide 
himself  in  the  wilderness  of  the  Anio  valley. 
Naked  and  starving,  he  was  befriended  by  a 
hermit  called  Romanus  who  gave  him  an  old 
haircloth  shirt  and  a  cloak  of  the  skins  of  wild 
beasts,  and  who  for  three  years  kept  him  alive 
by  a  daily  dole  of  a  loaf  of  bread.  The  cave  of 
the  boy-anchorite  was  quite  inaccessible,  so 
the  old  hermit  and  the  young  rigged  up  a  cord 
so  that  the  former  might  tie  his  loaf  to  it  and, 
pulling  it  up,  ring  a  little  bell  that  gave  word 
of  the  advent  of  the  single  daily  meal.  Little 
by  little  the  shepherds,  who,  when  they  first 
saw  him,  took  him  to  be  a  wild  animal,  spread 
reports  of  the  sanctity  of  the  new  cenobite,  and 
disciples  flocked  to  him,  drawn  by  curiosity, 
held  by  the  holiness  of  Benedict's  life  and  words. 
Day  by  day  he  fought  the  promptings  of  the 
flesh,  rolling  himself  in  brambles  when  the 
impulses  were  too  powerful  to  yield  to  will 
alone,  "until  his  body  was  all  one  wound." 
Master  of  himself  at  last,  he  consented  to  the 

*  Montalembert:  "The  Monks  of  the  West" 

[65] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

task  of  mastering  others,  and  became  superior 
over  a  colony  of  monks  near  by.  The  experi- 
ment was  a  total  failure,  and  Benedict  returned 
to  his  cave  only  to  be  overwhelmed  by  an  in- 
flux of  disciples  whom  he  finally  organized  into 
twelve  monasteries  under  his  own  direction. 
Priests  and  laymen,  nobles  and  peasants, 
Romans  and  Barbarians,  crowded  in  upon  him, 
all  thirsting  for  the  Bread  of  Life  that  he  alone 
seemed  able  to  give.  He  gave  it  indeed,  but 
the  price  was  obedience,  chastity,  and  labour; 
one  and  all,  the  motley  assemblage  were  set  to 
work  clearing  the  wilderness,  redeeming  the 
land,  earning  sustenance  from  the  unwilling 
soil.  He  was  bringing  righteousness  into  an 
unrighteous  world,  he  was  establishing  a  new 
order  of  things,  and  the  powers  as  then  estab- 
lished resented  the  revolution.  Hell  rose  up 
against  him,  all  the  powers  of  evil  were  leagued 
to  encompass  his  fall;  he  realized  this,  took  all 
the  hatred  of  the  world  upon  himself,  and,  to 
save  his  disciples,  fled  with  a  few  chosen  brothers 
far  to  the  south  into  the  higher  mountains,  and 
did  not  rest  until  he  found  himself  in  a  forgotten 
region  where  Christianity  was  unknown  and 
where  the  peasants  still  offered  sacrifices  to  the 
heathen  gods.  It  was  Monte  Cassino,  the  rock 
which  at  St.  Benedict's  blow  was  to  yield  the 

[66] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

fountain  that,  rising  into  an  enormous  flood, 
was  to  sweep  over  the  length  and  breadth  of 
Europe,  bringing  in  a  thousand  years  of  Chris- 
tian civilization. 

Here  for  the  fourteen  years  still  remaining 
of  this  short  and  wonderful  life,  St.  Benedict 
lived  and  worked,  organizing  the  multitudes 
of  disciples  that  flocked  to  him,  turning  the 
wilderness  into  a  garden,  converting  the  heathen 
inhabitants,  spreading  the  Gospel  of  Christ, 
winning  over  the  Gothic  invaders  of  Italy  and 
reconciling  his  own  people  to  them,  framing 
his  immortal  Rule  and  laying  the  foundations 
of  Christian  civilization.  A  layman  to  the  day 
of  his  death,  God  gave  him  natural  and  super- 
natural powers  unexampled  since  the  days  of 
the  Apostles,  and  when  "he  died  standing, 
murmuring  a  last  prayer"  at  the  age  of  sixty- 
three,  he  left  to  the  world  an  heritage  that 
guaranteed  its  glorious  and  righteous  develop- 
ment for  a  thousand  years. 

Nothing  marks  the  sublimity  of  the  Rule 
more  perfectly  than  its  absolute  reasonableness. 
Here  are  no  excesses,  no  savage  austerities,  but 
rather  serene  edicts  based  on  sound  common- 
sense  and  a  due  regard  to  the  potentialities  of 
human  nature.  The  Rule  of  St.  Benedict 
might  almost  be  called  the  first  promulgation 

[67] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

of  the  fundamental  law  of  Christian  society. 
In  the  words  of  our  Blessed  Lord  may  be  found 
the  enunciation  of  the  underlying  spirit;  the 
Rule  of  St.  Benedict  is  the  voicing  of  this  spirit 
in  detailed  and  definite  terms. 

The  results  were  instantaneously  visible. 
"Less  than  a  century  after  the  death  of  Bene- 
dict all  that  barbarism  had  won  from  civiliza- 
tion was  reconquered;  and  more  still,  his  chil- 
dren took  in  hand  to  carry  the  Gospel  beyond 
those  limits  which  had  confined  the  first  dis- 
ciples of  Christ.  After  Italy,  Gaul,  and  Spain 
had  been  retaken  from  the  enemy,  Great 
Britain,  Germany,  and  Scandinavia  were  in 
turn  invaded,  conquered,  and  incorporated  into 
Christendom.  The  West  was  saved.  A  new 
empire  was  founded.  A  new  world  began."* 

In  the  year  1316  a  careful  inquiry  was  made 
as  to  the  history  of  the  order,  and  it  was  found 
that  even  then  there  had  been  since  its  birth 
of  men  who  had  taken  its  vows,  twenty-four 
Popes,  two  hundred  cardinals,  seven  thousand 
archbishops,  fifteen  thousand  bishops,  the  same 
number  of  abbots  who  had  attained  distin- 
guished eminence,  and  upwards  of  forty  thou- 
sand saints  and  holy  men.  In  the  year  1569, 
after  the  work  of  suppression  had  begun,  it 

*  Montalembert:  "  The  Monks  of  the  West." 

[68] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

was  claimed  there  were  still  thirty-seven  thou- 
sand Benedictine  monasteries  containing  at 
least  a  million  monks. 

Its  first  vast  work  accomplished  and  Chris- 
tian civilization  supreme  at  last  throughout  all 
Europe,  Benedictinism  fell  away  from  its  primal 
purity,  but  from  its  loins  sprang  one  reforma- 
tion after  another,  Benedict  of  Aniane  in  the 
eighth  century,  the  Cluniacs  in  the  tenth,  the 
Carthusians  and  Augustinians  in  the  eleventh, 
the  Cistercians  and  Norbertines  in  the  twelfth, 
Franciscans,  Dominicans,  and  Carmelites  in 
the  thirteenth  century.  Each  was  a  child  of 
St.  Benedict  and  all  did  his  work,  whatever  the 
nomenclature  and  however  changed  in  minor 
matters  was  the  rule. 

It  is  impossible  to  rehearse  here  the  amaz- 
ing narrative  of  the  monastic  epoch  from  St. 
Benedict  to  St.  Francis  of  Assisi  and  St.  Dom- 
inic, but  it  may  be  truly  said  that  the  mighty 
thousand  years  of  medievalism  rest  finally 
on  the  rock  of  Monte  Cassino. 

Of  the  annals  of  Whitby  down  to  the  time 
when  a  Henry  consumed  what  another  Henry 
had  created,  little  of  moment  is  on  record.  No 
scandals  are  alleged  against  it,  even  by  Crum- 
well's  choice  aggregation  of  "visitors."  No 
tragedy  of  blood  and  violence  accompanies  its 

[69] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

downfall.  It  fell  in  the  terrible  year  1539, 
when  Henry's  career  of  destruction  had  shown 
beyond  any  question  that  a  refusal  of  his  de- 
mands meant  death  in  some  particularly  ghastly 
shape;  and  when  the  "visitors"  arrived  in 
December  of  that  year  Abbot  de  Vail  and  his 
eighteen  monks  bowed  in  submission  and  signed 
away  the  great  abbey,  whose  doom  was  thus 
inevitably  sealed.  At  this  time  its  annual 
revenues  amounted  to  about  twenty-five  thou- 
sand dollars.  In  the  fourth  year  of  Edward 
VI.,  the  ruins  were  granted  to  that  memorable 
knave,  John,  Earl  of  Warwick,  from  whom 
they  passed  to  Sir  Edward  Yorke,  and  thence, 
during  the  reign  of  Mary  I.,  to  the  house  of 
Cholmley,  with  whom  the  estate  has  remained 
until  now. 

Lindisfarne  and  Whitby,  always  so  closely 
allied,  are  also  akin  in  that  they  are  amongst 
the  very  few  examples  of  monastic  ruins  which 
stand  in  history  for  recorded  greatness  in  which 
they  themselves  have  no  part.  In  both  cases 
the  great  deeds  and  the  greater  men  are  of  a 
period  whereof  no  architectural  memorial  sur- 
vives. The  immortality  of  these  two  holy 
places  rests  on  the  records  of  a  past,  long  since 
old  and  hoary  when  the  eldest  stones  that  are 
now  in  place  were  fresh  from  the  mason's  chisel. 

[70] 


LINDISFARNE  AND  WHITBY 

An  interregnum  of  hundreds  of  years  lay  be- 
tween the  old  regime  of  St.  Cuthbert  and  St. 
Hilda,  and  the  new,  the  memorials  of  which 
still  remain.  After  the  refounding  of  each, 
history  has  little  to  say,  but  it  does  not  follow 
that  their  lives  were  empty  and  insignificant; 
rather  is  it  probable  that  they  were  of  that 
gentle  and  beneficent  type,  so  busy  with  duties 
ably  done  and  tasks  duly  accomplished  that 
brave  chronicles  are  out  of  mind,  and  the  day's 
work  is  well  done,  if  done  in  the  Name  of  God. 


[71] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

ON  either  side  Southampton  Water  lie 
the  ruins  of  two  abbeys  that  show  very 
clearly  the  almost  whimsical  fate  that 
has  overtaken  these  monuments  of  a  great  past. 
Mother  and  daughter,  the  one  has  been  utterly 
swept  away,  the  other  left  almost  intact  down 
to  a  comparatively  recent  time,  even  now  stand- 
ing in  noble  ruins  sufficient  to  enable  the  archae- 
ologist to  recreate  it  on  paper  in  all  its  delicate 
beauty.  Beaulieu,  elder  by  a  generation,  proud 
and  powerful,  the  seat  of  a  mitred  abbot,  vast 
in  its  dimensions,  rich,  domineering,  is  gone; 
utterly  vanished  away,  unless  one  may  count 
some  fragments  of  monastic  buildings  as  still 
giving  it  place  in  space  and  time.  Netley, 
the  modest  offshoot,  small,  humble,  unmarked 
of  history  or  legend,  one  of  those  unimportant 
little  centres  of  religious  life  and  civilization 
that  did  its  allotted  work  without  boastfulness 
or  ostentation,  remaining  forgotten  until  Henry 
discovered  it  in  its  sequestered  meadow  to  its 
instant  death  and  destruction  —  Netley  in  great 

[72] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

part  endures,  and  has  become  one  of  the 
famous  and  tourist-haunted  incarnations  of  the 
picturesque.  Its  name  is  linked  with  that 
of  Tintern,  Fountains,  and  Melrose,  but  who- 
ever heard  of  Beaulieu,  even  under  its  modern 
pronunciation  of  "Bewley"?  It  is  utterly  un- 
known, no  longer  even  a  name. 

And  such  is  the  fate  that  has  fallen  to  many 
of  the  greatest  abbeys  in  England.  As  I  have 
said  before,  the  most  marvellous  of  all  those 
that,  preserved,  would  have  added  a  new  glory 
to  England,  and  as  well  have  proved  beyond 
question  the  greatness  of  her  national  archi- 
tecture, St.  Edmundsbury,  Evesham,  Osney, 
Beaulieu,  have  been  razed  to  their  very  foun- 
dation stones,  or,  as  in  the  case  of  Glastonbury, 
York,  and  Gisburgh,  are  traceable  only  from 
battered  fragments,  whilst  insignificant  houses 
like  Tintern,  Netley  and  Bolton,  spared  by 
the  whim  of  chance,  have  become  the  symbols 
of  beauty,  majesty  and  awe. 

But  the  two  Hampshire  abbeys  we  shall  con- 
sider here  are  linked  more  closely  than  by 
neighbourliness  of  site  and  the  antitheses  of 
strange  fortune:  they  are  both  of  the  same 
order,  the  Cistercian,  and  as  Glastonbury, 
Lindisfarne  and  Whitby  were  Benedictine,  and 
therefore  of  the  first  great  order  of  monasticism, 

[73] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

it  is  well  that  we  should  thus  early  turn  to  the 
most  noble  scion  of  St.  Benedict's  Rule,  the 
Cistercian,  which,  immediately  and  always 
after,  appealing  most  strongly  to  men,  became 
in  England  one  of  the  most  efficient  and 
powerful  of  the  monastic  orders. 

The  congregation  of  Citeaux  (Lat.  Cister- 
cium)  was  founded  in  1092  by  St.  Robert  of 
Molesme,  as  a  protest  against  the  laxness  and 
luxury  that  had  become  only  too  common  among 
the  great  Benedictine  houses  as  a  result  of  the 
miraculous  favour  the  order  had  received  and 
its  resulting  wealth  and  power.  St.  Robert 
found  immediate  and  powerful  support  in  the 
person  of  Hugh,  Apostolic  Legate,  and  Arch- 
bishop of  Lyons,  and,  with  twenty-one  monks 
gathered  from  the  abbey  of  Molesme,  he  de- 
parted thence  and  sought  out  the  most  wild 
and  forbidding  spot  within  his  ken,  and  there 
began  the  erection  of  a  wooden  church  and 
monastery,  and  the  practise  of  the  Rule  of 
St.  Benedict  in  all  its  purity  and  severity.  So 
rigid  was  the  manner  of  life  of  the  new  com- 
munity, it  shortly  attracted  the  attention  and 
favour  of  Otho,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  who  aided 
St.  Robert  with  money  and  lands,  so  that  the 
new  house  prospered  exceedingly.  The  great 
reform  thus  instituted  worked  apace,  and  in 

[74] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

good  time  the  brothers  of  Molesme  prayed 
Pope  Urban  that  St.  Robert  might  be  sent 
back  to  them  in  order  that  they  also  might 
mend  their  ways:  which  prayer  was  granted 
and  the  founder  of  a  new  order  found  himself 
back  in  his  old  home,  now  no  longer  Bene- 
dictine, but  Cistercian,  and  well  won  back  to 
better  modes  of  life,  while  the  Prior  of  Citeaux 
became  abbot  in  his  stead. 

But  the  power  of  the  Cistercians  was  not 
alone  in  the  pious  simplicity  and  self-denial 
of  their  lives,  it  lay  in  equal  measure  in  their 
magnificent  and  logical  organization,  the  work 
of  St.  Stephen  Harding,  an  Englishman,  and 
one  of  the  seceders  from  Molesme.  Each 
Benedictine  house  had  been  practically  inde- 
pendent, but  among  Cistercians,  while  each 
monastery  was  a  family  in  itself,  preserving 
the  power  of  self -perpetuation,  all  the  houses 
together  formed  a  great  corporation  under  the 
perpetual  headship  of  the  Abbot  of  Citeaux. 
Annual  Chapters  were  held  at  which  all  abbots 
and  priors  were  bound  to  be  present,  and 
through  these  General  Chapters  was  obtained 
that  absolute  uniformity  in  life,  discipline,  and 
teaching  which  was  one  of  the  chief  marks  of 
Cistercianism.  The  order  increased  amazingly: 
within  fifty  years  five  hundred  houses  had  come 

[75] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

into  existence,  in  another  fifty  this  number  had 
increased  to  fifteen  hundred. 

Much  of  this  success  was  undoubtedly  due 
to  the  fierce  piety  and  the  majestic  intellect  of 
St.  Bernard,  the  greatest  single  glory  of  the 
Cistercian  Order.  He  became  a  novice  in 
Citeaux  because  of  the  then  poverty  and  severity 
of  this  house.  His  fame  spread  rapidly,  Citeaux 
became  thronged  with  ardent  followers,  dis- 
cipline became  lax,  and  the  crowded  monks 
began  to  get  out  of  hand,  so  the  abbot  gave 
twelve  of  the  most  zealous  of  them  in  charge 
of  St.  Bernard,  and  sent  them  off  to  found  in 
the  "Valley  of  Wormwood"  the  new  and  still 
more  rigid  monastery  of  Clairvaux. 

St.  Bernard  became  undoubtedly  the  most 
famous  man  of  his  time.  "He  was  the  arbiter 
in  Papal  elections,  the  judge  in  temporal  quar- 
rels, the  healer  of  schisms,  and  a  powerful 
preacher  of  the  Crusades.  He  was  the  em- 
bodiment of  all  that  was  best  in  the  thought 
of  his  age.  .  .  .  He  was  brave,  honest  and 
pure;  controlled  always  by  a  consuming  passion 
for  the  moral  welfare  of  the  people."*  So 
great  was  his  persuasive  eloquence  that  during 
his  life  it  was  said  that  "  mothers  hid  their  sons, 
wives  their  husbands,  and  companions  their 

*Trofessor  Wisbart:  "Monks  and  Monasteries." 

[76] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

friends,  lest  they  be  persuaded  by  his  eloquent 
message  to  enter  the  cloister."  Materially  also 
the  monks  of  Clairvaux  were  a  blessing,  for 
they  very  shortly  changed  the  desert  of  Worm- 
wood into  a  rich  and  fertile  country,  wiped  out 
the  robbers  with  whom  it  was  once  infested, 
and  became  the  leaders  of  the  people  not  alone 
in  spiritual,  but  in  material  things.  "His  soon 
canonized  name  has  shone  starlike  in  history 
ever  since  he  was  buried,  and  it  will  not  here- 
after decline  from  its  height  or  lose  its  lustre, 
while  men  continue  to  recognize  with  honour 
the  temper  of  devoted  Christian  consecration, 
a  character  compact  of  noble  forces  and  infused 
with  self -forgetful  love  of  God  and  man."* 

With  such  founders  as  St.  Robert  of  Molesme, 
St.  Stephen  Harding  and  St.  Bernard  of  Clair- 
vaux, the  Cistercian  Order  could  only  succeed, 
even  though  it  held  up  before  man  the  sternest 
and  most  forbidding  modes  of  life  and  refused 
the  appeal  of  splendid  ritual  and  convincing 
art.  For  many  years  the  abbeys  of  the  Cis- 
tercians were  distinguished  by  their  fierce 
rejection  of  the  richness  and  beauty  of  the  Bene- 
dictines. Bell-towers  were  forbidden;  carving, 
stained  glass,  pictures  (except  of  course  the 
crucifix  and  representations  of  our  Lord),  were 

*Dr.  Storrs:  "Bernard  of  Clairvaux." 

[77] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

strictly  prohibited.  Gold  and  silver  vessels 
and  rich  stuffs  and  embroideries  were  under 
the  ban.  The  churches  themselves  were  of  the 
utmost  simplicity  and  of  the  fewest  number  of 
parts.  Later,  when  this  curious  twelfth  cen- 
tury Puritanism  had  outgrown  its  fear  of  beauty, 
the  sumptuary  laws  were  much  relaxed,  but 
stern  simplicity  and  restraint  always  remained 
as  a  mark  of  the  Cistercian  Order. 

The  life  of  the  monastery  was  ordered  on 
no  less  a  rigorous  scale.  The  monks  wore  a 
rough  white  robe  without  a  cowl,  and  shirt, 
gloves  and  boots  were  forbidden;  the  head  was 
entirely  shaved,  four  hours  of  sleep  was  all  that 
was  allowed,  meat  was  never  eaten,  fish  but 
seldom,  and  from  Easter  until  September  there 
was  but  one  meal  a  day.  The  monasteries 
were  invariably  built  in  the  wildest  and  most 
remote  places,  though  always  where  nature  was, 
or  could  be  made,  most  beautiful,  and  to  this 
fact  is  due  the  merciful  preservation  of  so  many 
of  these  noble  structures,  while  those  of  the 
friendly  and  companionable  Benedictines  have 
been  swept  into  extinction. 

Remoteness  —  it  seems  strange  to  postulate 
this  quality  now  when  one  thinks  of  near  and 
grimy  Southampton  —  remoteness  saved  Netley, 
or  all  there  was  left  to  save  when  Henry's 

[78] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

"visitors"  had  gone;  but  it  was  powerless  in  the 
case  of  the  vast  and  far-flung  Beaulieu,  for  it 
lay  along  tide-water,  and,  enormous  quarry 
that  it  was,  proved  materially  available  for  the 
king's  purposes.  Down  to  its  very  footing- 
stones  it  fell,  and  was  shipped  down  the  Exe 
for  the  building  of  Hurst  Castle.  With  the 
exception  of  one  low  wall  of  the  south  aisle  of 
the  nave,  not  one  stone  of  the  church  remains 
literally  on  another.  The  refectory  was  spared, 
and  has  become  a  parish  church,  adequate 
enough  in  these  latter  days  for  the  accommo- 
dation of  the  handful  of  local  worshippers;  the 
arches  of  the  chapter  house  door  still  stand, 
though  hardly,  leaning  now  into  the  cloister- 
garth  at  a  perilous  angle;  the  house  of  the  lay 
brothers  is  still  intact,  in  part,  and  forms  a 
museum ;  but  all  else  is  gone,  and  there  remains 
little  of  actual  beauty,  or  even  picturesqueness, 
of  what  must  once  have  been  one  of  the  wonders 
of  England. 

Fortunately,  the  place  is  now  in  the  hands 
of  a  thoughtful  and  reverent  custodian  —  Baron 
Montagu,  of  Beaulieu  —  and  nothing  more 
will  perish,  though  in  fact  there  is  little  enough 
left  to  save.  One  thing  Lord  Montagu  has 
done  which  deserves  the  highest  commenda- 
tion: gone  is  the  great  church,  every  vestige  of 

[79] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

it,  but  in  the  close-cropped,  emerald  turf  the 
location  of  every  wall  and  pier  has  been  traced 
in  tawny  sand,  and  so  from  a  slight  elevation 
one  may  look  down  as  upon  a  vast  coloured 
plan,  three  hundred  and  fifty  feet  long  and 
two  hundred  feet  wide.  Thus  one  may  trace 
the  form  and  disposition  of  what  must  once 
have  been  a  majestic  church:  a  great  nave  of 
nine  bays,  a  crossing  and  central  tower,  a  north 
transept  of  five  and  a  south  of  four  bays,  and 
a  complete  double  aisled  choir  with  a  circular 
termination,  almost  the  only  example  of  this 
purely  continental  type  that  had  endured  in 
England  down  to  the  Suppression.  Here  was 
a  plan  as  French  as  might  be,  so  far  as  its 
eastern  termination  was  concerned,  yet  built  by 
English  masons  in  the  most  vital  years  of  the 
thirteenth  century.  It  is  true  the  abbot  is 
believed  to  have  brought  over  from  Rouen  a 
certain  master  mason  named  Durandus,  but 
his  services  were  undoubtedly  confined  to  work- 
ing out  the  great  chevet;  all  else  must  have  been 
purely  English  and  contemporary  with  such 
masterpieces  as  the  "Nine  Altars,"  Durham, 
the  west  fronts  of  Peterborough  and  Wells, 
and  the  choirs  of  Whitby  and  Rievaulx.  The 
great  church  was  begun  in  1221,  and  conse- 
crated in  the  presence  of  King  Henry  III.  and 

[80] 


Netley — The   Monks'   Door  to   the  Church. 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

his  Queen;  Richard,  Earl  of  Cornwall,  King  of 
the  Romans  and  Emperor  of  Germany,  and  a 
great  throng  of  prelates  and  nobles,  on  June  21, 
1244.  It  is  impossible  to  call  up  in  vision  any 
adequate  semblance  of  what  it  must  have  been: 
severe,  undoubtedly,  for  such  was  the  Cistercian 
ideal,  but  with  equal  certainty  perfectly  propor- 
tioned, for  here  this  order  seldom  erred.  It 
was  not  of  enormous  size,  being  but  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty  feet  long  and  one  hundred  and 
ninety  across  the  transepts,  about  the  dimen- 
sions, let  us  say,  of  Wells  cathedral. 

The  loss  of  Beaulieu  is  irreparable  in  the 
history  of  English  architecture.  Westminster 
was  a  few  years  later  and  possibly  patterned 
on  it,  Tewksbury  is  a  full  century  further  ad- 
vanced. Beaulieu  was  the  first  example  of  the 
chevet  in  England,  therefore  the  most  precious. 
When  Henry  crushed  such  work  as  this  into 
building  stone  he  destroyed  the  most  price- 
less records  of  the  development  of  English 
art. 

Now,  as  of  old,  Beaulieu  stands  isolated  and 
aloof;  no  railway  is  near,  and  it  lies  in  an  emerald 
oasis  surrrounded  by  wild  and  uncouth  moors. 
The  site  itself  is  exquisite,  a  dip  of  gentle  valley 
sloping  toward  the  sun,  just  where  the  salt  from 
the  Channel  water  mingles  with  the  upland 

[81] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

flood  of  the  Exe.  Green  meadows  and  flowery 
orchards  stretch  all  around,  and  majestic  trees 
lean  over  the  winding  and  cloistered  roads. 
Although  the  church  itself  was  not  notably  large, 
the  conventual  buildings  were  elaborate,  com- 
plete, and  widespread:  even  now  fragments  of 
grey  masonry  crop  up  in  scores  of  unexpected 
places,  indicating  the  sites  of  mills,  barns, 
granaries,  store-rooms,  brew-houses  and  wine- 
presses. This  was  once  a  great  country  for 
grapes,  and  the  old  terraces  of  the  monastic 
vineyards  may  still  be  traced  on  the  hillside  to 
the  north.  The  precincts  of  the  abbey  were 
very  large,  the  walls  extending  over  a  mile  and 
a  quarter,  and  the  privilege  of  sanctuary  of 
which  the  abbey  was  possessed  reached  some 
twenty  paces  farther  in  all  directions.  Many 
persons  sought  sanctuary  within  these  walls 
at  different  times;  for  their  protection,  except 
to  murderers,  was  absolute.  Margaret  of  Anjou, 
Queen  to  Henry  VI.,  and  her  son,  Prince  Edward, 
availed  themselves  of  it  on  their  landing  in 
England  at  the  time  of  the  Battle  of  Barnet,  as 
did  Anne  of  Warwick,  the  Marquis  of  Dorset, 
and  Perkin  Warbeck  after  the  failure  of  his 
rising  in  the  West.  At  the  time  of  the  Sur- 
render thirty-two  men  with  their  families  were 
safely  ensconced  within  the  walls,  but  Crum- 

[82] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

well  made  short  work  of  them  when  once  the 
abbot  was  dispossessed. 

Some  idea  of  the  power  of  one  of  these  great 
monasteries  may  be  gained  from  traces  still 
existing  of  the  centre  of  trade  built  up  by  the 
monks  outside  their  gates.  Here  at  the  head 
of  tide-water,  in  a  most  out-of-the-way  spot,  a 
great  stone  quay  was  constructed,  to  which 
came  ships  from  foreign  lands.  Near  by  was  a 
great  market-place,  now,  as  then,  called  Cheap- 
side,  though  commerce  exists  there  no  longer. 
At  the  height  of  monastic  glory  the  religious 
houses  were  actually  the  chief  centres  of  industry 
and  civilization,  and  around  them  grew  up  the 
eager  villages,  many  of  which  now  exist,  even 
though  their  impulse  and  original  inspiration 
have  long  since  departed.  Of  course  the  pos- 
sessions of  the  abbey  reached  far  away  from 
the  walls  in  every  direction,  including  many 
farms  even  at  a  great  distance,  for  the  abbeys 
were  then  the  great  land-owners,  and  bene- 
ficent landlords  they  were  as  well,  even  in  their 
last  days,  for  we  have  many  records  of  the 
cruelty  and  hardships  that  came  to  the  tenants 
the  moment  the  stolen  lands  came  into  the 
hands  of  laymen. 

Another  evidence  of  the  industry  and  far- 
seeing  wisdom  of  the  monks  may  be  found  in 

[83] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

their  care  for  a  pure  and  copious  water  supply 
and  adequate  drainage.  Here  at  Beaulieu  the 
water  was  brought  by  an  underground  conduit 
from  an  unfailing  spring,  a  mile  away,  and  this 
served  for  drinking,  washing  and  bathing,  the 
supply  of  the  fish  ponds,  and  for  a  constant 
flushing  of  the  elaborate  system  of  drainage. 
In  sanitary  matters  the  monks  were  as  far  in 
advance  of  the  rest  of  society  as  they  were  in 
learning  and  in  agriculture.  For  century  after 
century  they  were  the  centres  of  civilization, 
from  which  radiated  the  influence  that  has 
made  English  character  what  it  is:  to  them, 
more  than  to  any  other  single  power  in  the  land, 
is  due  the  sterling  character  of  our  forefathers. 

Beaulieu  was  founded  in  the  year  1204,  by 
King  John,  according  to  legend,  in  expiation  of 
his  hatred  and  persecution  of  the  Cistercians, 
the  wickedness  of  which  had  been  revealed  to 
him  in  a  dream.  The  effective  cause  does  not 
seem  adequate,  but,  in  any  case,  his  favour  be- 
came pronounced,  for  he  gave  the  order  much 
land  here  in  the  New  Forest,  with  extraordinary 
privileges  therein,  a  grant  of  money  from  the 
royal  treasury,  a  great  store  of  corn,  one  hun- 
dred and  twenty  cows,  twelve  bulls,  a  golden 
chalice,  and  a  yearly  present  of  a  tun  of  wine: 
a  somewhat  motley  beneficence,  but  useful 

[84] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

withal:  moreover,  he  ordered  all  the  Cistercian 
abbots  in  England  to  join  in  building  here  a 
glorious  abbey. 

Thirty-five  years  after  this  unique  exhibition 
of  generosity  on  the  part  of  King  John,  Netley 
was  founded  as  a  cell  of  Beaulieu  by  a  colony  of 
monks  from  the  already  rich  and  numerous 
abbey,  obtaining  its  charter  from  King  Henry 
III.  in  1239.  Modest  in  its  beginnings,  it  al- 
ways remained  an  inconspicuous  little  house, 
hidden  away  by  the  low-lying  shores  of  South- 
ampton Water,  until  indeed  it  was  discovered  to 
be  one  of  the  most  perfectly  beautiful  little 
ruins  in  all  England,  when  it  speedily  became  a 
haunt  of  the  tripper,  a  Mecca  of  the  excursion- 
ist: and  little  wonder,  for  its  beauty  and  charm 
are  almost  beyond  comparison.  Also,  it  is  ac- 
cessible, almost  a  suburb  of  Southampton,  and 
fast  being  surrounded  by  the  horrible  brick 
tenements,  shoddy  "villas,"  and  sordid  shops 
that  mark  the  van  of  on-rushing  civilization. 
Still  the  pride  of  the  "  Jerrybuilder  "  stops  short 
of  the  abbey  precincts;  the  dim  and  sheltering 
wood  is  still  intact,  and  the  shore  for  a  space  is 
as  yet  undefiled. 

Now,  however,  even  as  in  the  time  of  Wai- 
pole,  Netley,  whether  under  the  sun  or  moon, 
is  a  mystical  vision  that  quite  justifies  the 

[85] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

rhapsody  of  Sir  Horace:  "They  are  not  the 
ruins  of  Netley  but  of  Paradise.  Oh !  the  Purple 
Abbots !  what  a  spot  they  had  chosen  to  slumber 
in!"  From  the  deep- wooded  road  one  turns 
down  into  a  green  meadow  starred  with  a  galaxy 
of  glimmering  daisies,  then  to  the  left  opens  a 
narrow  archway  in  a  shattered  wall.  Nothing 
more  is  visible:  no  spires  of  toppling  wall,  no 
blank-windowed  tower,  nothing  but  a  dense, 
impervious  screen  of  luxuriant  foliage. 

Pass  the  turnstile  and  in  a  breath  we  are  in 
the  very  cloister-garth  itself:  the  cloisters  are 
vanished  utterly,  but  here  is  a  deep-turfed 
court,  thick  with  slim  trees,  four  square,  and 
bounded  by  ragged  walls  hung  deep  with 
glistening  ivy.  Behind  lies  the  site  of  the  refec- 
tory, which  has  been  wholly  destroyed,  except 
for  its  cloister  wall;  to  the  left  the  quarters  of 
the  lay  brothers,  to  the  right  the  wonderful 
triple  arches  of  the  chapter  house,  and  in  front, 
seen  dimly  through  the  trees,  the  windowed 
wall  of  the  south  aisle  of  the  church,  with  the 
transept  lifting  to  the  highest  point  of  all  in 
the  angle.  All  the  buildings  to  the  south  of  the 
cloister  have  been  destroyed,  rebuilt  as  a  dwell- 
ing, and  destroyed  again,  but  the  eastern  range 
is  still  fairly  complete,  though  much  mutilated 
by  alterations  made  by  the  Marquis  of  Win- 

[86] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

Chester  (to  whom,  as  Sir  William  Paulet,  it 
was  granted  at  the  Suppression)  to  adapt  his 
new  possessions  to  the  purposes  of  a  dwelling, 
and  scathed  by  fire  when  it  was  destroyed  at  the 
time  of  the  Great  Rebellion,  then  being  in  the 
hands  of  the  ever  faithful  Marquis  of  Hertford. 

As  we  enter  through  the  little  door  of  the 
monks  and  emerge  into  the  church  itself  we 
realize  at  once  how  dire  has  been  the  destruc- 
tion, though  full  knowledge  of  the  exquisite 
beauty  that  then  passed  away  does  not  come 
until  we  have  begun  to  pore  over  the  fragments 
that  still  remain. 

Netley  has  passed  through  many  hands,  none 
of  them  conspicuously  tender,  until  recent  years. 
On  the  death  of  Winchester,  in  1572,  it  came 
into  the  possession  of  the  Earl  of  Hertford, 
thence  to  that  of  his  heir,  Edward  Seymour, 
who  suffered  so  notably  at  the  hands  of  the 
strenuous  Elizabeth  because  of  his  marriage  to 
the  sister  of  Lady  Jane  Grey.  Later  another 
alliance  brought  political  disgrace  to  an  owner  of 
Netley,  the  same  loyal  Marquis  of  Hertford  who 
subsequently  stood  so  strongly  for  his  king.  By 
marrying  the  Lady  Arabella  Stuart  he  had 
brought  himself  into  disfavour  with  James  I., 
had  escaped  to  the  Continent  and  had  returned 
to  prove  a  faithful  servant  of  King  James's 

[87] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

lawful  successors.  Late  in  the  seventeenth  cen- 
tury the  abbey  came  to  the  Earl  of  Hunting- 
don, and  it  was  not  until  then  that  the  actual 
ruin  of  the  church  began.  The  Noble  Earl 
turned  the  nave  into  a  tennis  court,  piously 
reserving  the  choir  as  his  own  private  chapel, 
while  the  chapter  house  became  a  kitchen, 
and  other  of  the  conventual  buildings  were 
made  into  stables.  For  many  years  the  south 
transept  also  was  used  as  a  stable,  floors  having 
been  introduced  at  various  levels,  the  beautiful 
stonework  being  ruthlessly  hacked  into  and 
weakened  in  the  process:  whether  this  trans- 
mutation took  place  under  the  same  Noble  Earl 
would  be  hard  to  say,  but  we  may  believe  it, 
since  the  combination  of  tennis  court  and  chapel 
and  stable  would  have  been  singularly  pictu- 
resque and  quaintly  indicative  of  the  temper 
of  the  seventeenth  century.  In  1700  Sir  Berkeley 
Lucy  took  his  turn  at  ownership  and  made  a  fine 
revelation  of  his  thrift  and  practicality  by  selling 
the  entire  church  to  one  Walter  Taylor,  a  builder 
of  Southampton,  on  condition  that  it  be  wholly 
removed.  At  this  time,  incredible  as  it  may 
seem,  the  church  remained  still  perfect  in  every 
structural  particular. 

The  connection  of  Master  Taylor  with  Netley 
Abbey  was  not  happy:  a  Nonconformist  and 

[88] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

friend  of  the  father  of  the  eminent  Dr.  Watts, 
he  had  been  advised  by  him  to  have  no  part  in 
the  impending  sacrilege,  as  the  worthy  man  did 
not  hesitate  to  pronounce  it.  Still  persisting 
in  his  negotiations  with  Sir  Berkeley,  he  became 
tormented  by  dreams  in  which  his  instant 
death  was  foretold  if  he  laid  hands  on  the 
sacred  stones.  Still  determined  to  win  what 
profits  he  could  from  the  sale  of  the  abbey  as 
so  much  building  stone,  he  was  next  visited  by 
the  ghost  of  a  gaunt  old  monk  in  a  white  habit, 
who  warned  him  that  if  he  dared  so  much  as 
to  begin  his  evil  work  the  roof  should  fall  and 
crush  him.  Filed  with  terror,  but  urged  on 
by  a  fierce  cupidity,  the  unhappy  man  signed 
his  agreement  with  Lucy,  removed  the  roof, 
destroyed  the  vaulting  of  the  choir,  nave,  and 
north  transept,  together  with  the  central  tower, 
and  was  beginning  on  the  west  end  when  the 
tracery  of  the  great  window  fell  suddenly, 
fracturing  his  skull  and  inflicting  other  hurts, 
whereof  he  forwith  died. 

For  a  time  the  course  of  ruin  was  stayed. 
A  Mr.  Clift  acquired  what  remained,  and  in 
time  transferred  it  to  Sir  Nathaniel  Holland. 
Lady  Holland,  inspired  by  the  chaste  emotions 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  and  desiring  an  ex- 
ample of  "  The  Picturesque  "  in  her  park,  re- 

[89] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

moved  the  entire  north  transept  for  the  purpose 
of  fabricating  a  tasteful  ruin  therein.  Here  the 
wretched  story  comes  to  an  end.  Mr.  Chamber- 
layne,  the  next  owner,  was  a  gentleman,  and 
as  early  as  1861  he  took  steps  to  preserve  such 
of  the  abbey  as  was  left,  and  it  is  now  safe. 
The  treatment  accorded  it  has  been  absolutely 
judicious;  it  has  not  been  furbished  up  into 
smug  neatness,  as  has  been  the  case  with  Tintern 
and  Kirkstall;  it  is  not  abandoned  to  cumulative 
decay  like  Rievaulx.  The  trees  and  luxuriant 
ivy  are  kept  well  within  bounds,  the  debris  has 
been  removed,  the  disintegration  stopped.  As 
a  result  Netley  is  a  faultless  ruin,  a  thing  of 
almost  unimaginable  beauty,  half  because  of 
the  greatness  of  its  art,  half  by  reason  of  the 
fact  that  it  is  regarded,  not  as  an  archaeological 
specimen,  but  as  a  picture,  as  a  living  poem. 
Viewed  in  this  light,  it  is  perhaps  the  most 
wholly  lovely  thing  amongst  all  the  abbeys  of 
Great  Britain. 

Materially,  it  is  one  of  the  smallest.  The 
church  was  but  two  hundred  and  twenty  feet 
over  all,  wholly  vaulted  in  stone;  its  height  in- 
side was  only  forty-three  feet,  yet  so  exquisite 
is  it  in  its  proportions,  the  actual  dimensions 
when  discovered  come  almost  as  a  shock.  In 
style  it  is  of  that  early  and  noble  thirteenth 

[90] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

century  that  is  so  gravely  reserved,  so  pure  in 
its  classicality.  Cistercian  vigour  marks  it  all, 
but  also  Cistercian  seriousness  and  loftiness  of 
impulse.  It  is  all  a  study  in  subtle  proportions 
and  sensitive  line.  Greek,  if  you  like,  since 
the  word  means  a  certain  perfection ;  but  actually 
no  classical  building  ever  showed  the  finality 
of  the  absolutely  attained  in  such  measure  as 
do  some  examples  of  pure  Gothic,  like  Netley, 
York  Abbey,  Rievaulx.  Such  buildings  as  these 
are  marvels  of  complex  simplicity;  they  are 
the  most  highly  organized  of  the  works  of  man. 
Nothing  could  be  more  severe  and  masterly 
than  the  shafts  of  the  south  transept,  nothing 
more  vibrant  with  life,  yet  full  of  gracious 
repose,  than  the  arches  of  the  chapter  house. 
As  late  as  1859,  the  slender  shafts  of  Purbeck 
marble  still  encircled  the  columns  of  this  per- 
fect doorway,  and  remained  indeed  in  many 
other  parts  of  the  church  as  well;  but  a  strike 
taking  place,  the  men  employed  on  the  great 
Victoria  Hospital  near  by  amused  themselves 
and  obtained  a  few  shillings  for  drink  by  tear- 
ing them  all  away  and  selling  them  to  be  worked 
into  chimney-pieces  by  thrifty  manufacturers 
of  the  neighbourhood.  We  curse  the  Turk  for 
his  destruction  of  the  classical  wonders  of  Greece; 
does  it  ever  occur  to  us  that  in  our  treatment 

[91] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

of  the  Gothic  wonders  of  England  we  have 
matched  him  in  his  own  field  ? 

Apart  from  its  wonderful  classicism,  Netley  is 
full  of  evidences  of  the  burgeoning  vitality  of 
the  thirteenth  century.  The  ponderous  Norman 
is  only  a  few  years  behind,  and  yet  here  is  true 
and  brilliant  Gothic  of  a  very  perfect  type,  full, 
too,  of  that  constant  reaching  out  for  new  ideas 
so  characteristic  of  English  work.  In  the 
splays  of  the  aisle  windows,  the  development 
of  the  piers,  the  treatment  of  arcade,  triforium, 
and  clerestory,  the  working  out  of  the  vaulting, 
there  is  visible  an  almost  passionate  originality 
and  invention,  contrasting  strangely  with  the 
cold  and  scientific  work  of  the  contemporary 
builders  in  France,  who,  amongst  a  certain 
class  of  critics,  are  held  to  be  the  only  Gothic 
builders  in  history. 

But  to  the  world  the  charm  of  Netley  will 
always  lie  in  its  infinite  picturesqueness.  No 
ruin  in  England  has  shaped  itself  into  such  an 
infinite  variety  of  pictures :  it  is  a  painter's  para- 
dise, yet  none  paints  it:  a  poet's  inspiration,  yet 
none  seems  ever  to  have  fallen  under  its  spell. 
One  may  wander  through  and  around  it  day 
after  day  finding 

"...  some  knowledge  at  each  pause 
Or  some  new  thing  to  know." 
[92] 


BEAULIEU  AND  NETLEY 

When  the  spangled  turf  is  wet  with  dew  and 
the  mist  from  the  water  is  veiling  the  sundered 
walls;  when  the  sun  rides  high  and  the  mellow 
stone  glows  deep  and  golden,  whilst  deep 
shadows  lurk  under  the  transept  vaults;  when 
the  light  is  level  at  sunset  and  the  grassy  pave- 
ment is  slashed  with  golden  bars;  in  sun  and 
shadow,  in  mist  or  rain,  it  is  the  very  haunt  of 
poetry,  a  dream-like  emanation  of  the  past,  set 
here  on  the  verge  of  the  insistent,  clamorous 
present. 

But  it  is  most  wonderful  of  all  by  moonlight. 
The  silence  is  absolute,  profound,  the  harsh 
edges  of  the  riven  stones  are  softened,  the  clos- 
ing forest  mingles  with  the  dark  ivy  and  turf, 
and  out  of  the  great  shadow  shafts  and  arches 
grow  pale  and  white,  seemingly  hung  in  the 
void:  or,  from  another  point,  vacant  windows 
closed  by  splendid  arches  shape  themselves 
dark  against  the  luminous  sky.  "Oh,  the 
Purple  Abbots!  What  a  spot  they  had  chosen 
to  slumber  in,"  indeed. 


[93] 


TINTERN 

FROM  Netley  it  is  no  far  cry  to  Tintern, 
that  other  Cistercian  abbey  on  the  Wye, 
that  rivals  it  in  beauty  of  situation  and 
classical  nobility  of  style,  even  though  assiduous 
care  for  its  preservation  has  robbed  it  of  the 
wild  picturesqueness  that  leaves  Netley  first 
among  the  absolute  epics  of  monastic  England. 
Tintern  is  supremely  wonderful  for  situation 
amongst  scores  of  rivals :  it  lies  on  the  very  brink 
of  the  river,  in  a  hollow  of  the  hills  of  Monmouth, 
sheltered  from  harsh  winds,  warmed  by  the 
breezes  of  the  channel,  a  very  nook  in  an  earthly 
Eden.  Somehow,  the  winter  seems  to  fall 
more  lightly  here,  the  spring  to  come  earlier, 
the  foliage  to  take  on  a  deeper  green,  the  grass 
a  greater  thickness,  the  flowers  a  more  multi- 
tudinous variety,  a  more  poignant  sweetness. 
Here  the  breakneck  hills  are  clothed  to  their 
crests  in  deep  forests;  the  intervales  and  mead- 
ows are  lush  and  warm;  the  sky  itself  is  of  a 
softer  splendour.  If,  as  should  always  be  the 
case,  the  pilgrim  comes  lazily  by  boat  down  the 

[94] 


TINTERN 

winding  Wye  from  Ross,  he  makes  a  perfect 
approach.  Behind  him  is  the  grateful  memory 
of  a  wonderfully  good  little  inn  on  the  very  walls 
of  Ross  castle  (good  in  all  but  its  architecture, 
which  is  unspeakable);  before  him,  though  he 
may  not  know  it  as  yet,  is  the  promise  of  equally 
generous  entertainment  in  the  rambling  and 
ivy-covered  old  inn  at  Tintern,  from  the  garden 
of  which,  as  he  drinks  his  tea  of  an  afternoon, 
he  may  watch  the  low  sun  turn  the  stones  of 
the  abbey  into  burnished  gold,  so  close  at  hand 
that  a  rose  tossed  from  the  terrace  would  fall 
almost  at  the  foot  of  the  walls. 

And  the  voyage  itself  is  something  long  to 
be  remembered;  a  river  of  infinite  moods,  now 
languid  and  brooding,  now  fierce  and  turbu- 
lent to  such  an  extent  that  sharp  skill  is  neces- 
sary on  the  part  of  the  boatman  to  avoid 
incontinent  shipwreck.  The  river  winds  back 
and  forth,  now  through  level  meadows  crowded 
with  ruminant  cattle,  now  between  steep-terraced 
hills  fat  with  luxuriant  foliage,  with  here  and 
there  red  crags  of  old  castles  breaking  the  velvet 
pall.  No  cities  or  upstart  towns  clog  the  banks, 
or  foul  the  water;  no  factory  chimneys  blast 
the  view.  It  is  all  a  sweet  and  idyllic  place. 
Now  and  then  white  swans  float  by,  perhaps, 
if  you  are  fortunate,  convoying  a  little  flotilla 

[95] 


TINTERN 

of  downy  cygnets,  though  this  is  a  thing  seen 
no  more  than  once  in  a  decade;  in  the  season 
salmon  fishers  are  omnipresent  and  humanly 
prone  to  resent  the  disturbing  intrusion  of  the 
heedless  voyager. 

The  ruin  of  Tintern,  like  that  of  so  many  of 
the  sequestered  Cistercian  abbeys,  is  the  fruit 
of  time  long  continued  and  of  scornful  neglect. 
When  Abbot  Wych,  the  last  of  a  line  that  had 
endured  for  nearly  three  centuries,  surrendered 
the  abbey  to  Henry  on  September  1, 1537,  it  was 
handed  over  to  the  Earl  of  Worcester,  who  left 
it  severely  alone  as  did  his  successors  for  genera- 
tions. Through  them  it  descended  to  the  ducal 
house  of  Beaufort,  and  with  the  glimmerings 
of  renewed  civilization  in  the  latter  half  of  the 
nineteenth  century  its  fortunes  changed.  Every 
vestige  of  vaulting  had  gone,  together  with  the 
central  tower,  while  the  north  arcade  and  clere- 
story of  the  nave  had  entirely  disappeared; 
otherwise  the  church  itself  was  practically  in- 
tact, barring,  of  course,  the  altars,  screens,  and 
window  tracery.  All  the  monastic  buildings 
were  in  ruins,  though  none  had  been  wholly 
destroyed.  On  the  whole,  it  was  almost  the 
best  preserved  of  the  ruined  abbeys  of  England. 
His  Grace  of  Beaufort  stopped  the  disintegra- 
tion where  it  stood,  and  the  great  monument, 

[96] 


intern — The   Crossing. 


TINTERN 

now  having  become  Crown  property,  is  prob- 
ably destined  to  permanent  preservation. 

Of  course  this  means  a  certain  loss  in  pic- 
turesqueness :  nearly  all  the  clambering  ivy 
has  been  removed,  every  fragment  of  cut  stone 
recovered  is  carefully  cherished,  and,  when 
possible,  replaced  in  a  plausible  position.  The 
abbey  is  now  preserved  with  the  most  jealous 
care,  but  it  has  become  an  archaeological  monu- 
ment and  furnishes  a  startling  contrast  to  Netley, 
the  mystical  haunt  of  poetry,  the  apotheosis 
of  natural  beauty.  Probably  this  is  all  very 
wise,  for  Tintern  is  a  singularly  noble  and  per- 
fect example  of  the  purest  Cistercian  Gothic 
of  the  mid-thirteenth  century.  It  is  the  next 
step  after  Netley,  as  this  followed  close  in  archi- 
tectural development  after  Beaulieu.  Begun 
just  thirty  years  after  the  corner-stones  were 
laid  at  Netley,  i.e.,  A.D.  1269,  it  represents 
that  noble  transition  from  the  early  pointed  to 
the  so-called  "geometrical"  style.  Coeval  with 
York  Abbey,  it  is  a  perfect  counterfoil;  on  the 
one  hand  the  severe  asceticism  of  the  Cister- 
cians, on  the  other  the  opulence  and  majesty 
and  the  rejoicing  in  consummate  art  of  the 
Benedictines.  No  sharper  contrast  would  be 
possible.  In  the  north  the  gleaming  walls  and 
pearly  interior  of  the  vast  fabric  wrought  of  a 

[97] 


TINTERN 

limestone  as  white  and  pure  as  marble,  fretted 
with  infinite  enrichment  of  delicately  chiselled 
arcades,  niches,  canopies  and  pinnacles,  and 
with  jambstones  and  capitals  and  corbels  all 
carved  with  exquisite,  intricate  foliage.  Here 
in  the  south,  these  unwrought,  unsculptured 
walls  of  ashen  grey,  slashed  with  long  windows 
of  severest  form :  within,  cut  sandstone  for  shaft 
and  string  course,  archivolt  and  vaulting  rib,  the 
rest  rough  rubble,  once  coated  with  plain  white 
plaster:  not  a  cap  is  carved,  and  hardly  a  cor- 
bel; the  great  bosses  of  the  vaults  that  now  lie 
reversed  in  the  green  turf  were  chiselled  indeed, 
but  one  feels  that  even  they  were  probably  an. 
offence  to  the  first  abbots. 

Yet  north  and  south,  Benedictine  and  Cister- 
cian, sundered  as  are  the  two  structures  in 
design,  material,  and  detail,  they  are  equally 
wonderful  in  that  one  greatest  quality  of  great 
art  —  proportion.  Here  at  Tintern  one  is  blinded 
by  no  blandishment  of  ravishing  detail:  the 
composition  stands  forth  as  simple  and  direct 
as  that  of  the  Parthenon.  All  is  laid  bare,  and 
we  see  how  pure  and  how  perfect  it  all  is,  how 
severely  classical,  how  gravely  and  faultlessly 
competent.  Here,  in  a  presence  like  this,  we 
realize  how  futile  is  the  contemporary  striving 
after  success  through  lavished  detail,  if  behind 

[98] 


TINTERN 

it  all  is  not  the  masterly  composition  and  pro- 
portion and  relation  of  parts  that  are  the  only 
beginnings  wherefrom  success  may  come.  Tin- 
tern  demonstrates  at  once  the  things  that  are 
indispensable  in  art,  the  things  that  are  super- 
ficial. 

It  is  not  a  large  church,  only  some  two  hun- 
dred and  eighty-eight  feet  in  length  by  one 
hundred  and  fifty-one  feet  in  extreme  breadth 
across  the  transepts;  the  central  aisle  of  the 
nave  is  thirty-three  feet  wide,  while  the  height 
is  sixty-nine  feet.  Here  we  see  at  once  the  great 
divergence  from  the  earliest  type  as  at  Netley, 
where,  with  about  the  same  nave  width,  the 
height  was  but  forty-three  feet.  The  church  is 
cruciform,  of  course,  with  a  short  nave  of  six 
bays,  a  choir  of  four  and  transepts  of  three. 
The  arcade  is  singularly  noble  and  well  pro- 
portioned; the  triforium  is  missing,  and  its  place 
is  taken  by  a  wide  space  of  unbroken  wall  sub- 
divided by  the  vaulting  shafts.  The  vault 
itself  springs  from  the  upper  course  of  this 
pseudo-triforium,  and  the  clerestory  windows 
are  of  two  narrow  lights  rather  awkwardly  com- 
prised within  the  vault  triangle.  In  Netley 
the  grouped  lancets  of  the  earliest  English 
Gothic,  as  at  Whitby  and  Rievaulx,  have  given 
place  to  great  windows  divided  by  columnal 

[99] 


TINTERN 

mullions,  and  here  at  Tintern  there  is  a  still 
further  advance,  the  tall,  slim-shafted  window 
of  the  south  transept,  seventeen  feet  wide  and 
fifty-two  feet  high,  being  a  stroke  of  masterly 
genius,  while  the  east  window  is,  or  was,  a 
wonderful  thing,  twenty-seven  feet  in  breadth, 
and  no  less  than  fifty-five  feet  in  clear  alti- 
tude. 

Netley,  better  than  any  other  Cistercian 
church,  shows  the  original  divisions  of  the 
interior  by  means  of  walls  of  solid  stone,  some 
ten  or  fifteen  feet  high.  An  abbey  church  of 
this  order  was  not  one  great  open  space  broken 
only  by  piers  and  columns:  it  was  subdivided 
until  it  really  became  a  series  of  apartments, 
separated  from  each  other  by  low  walls  of 
masonry.  In  the  first  place,  both  transepts 
and  the  north  and  south  aisles  of  the  choir  and 
nave  were  shut  off  entirely  by  solid  screens 
between  all  the  columns  of  the  arcade  and  reach- 
ing from  the  east  wall  to  the  west.  Midway 
the  length  of  the  church  —  here  at  Tintern  one 
bay  west  of  the  tower  —  was  a  transverse  wall 
—  the  " pulpitum"  —  dividing  the  central  en- 
closed space  in  two.  To  the  east  were  the  sanc- 
tuary, choir  and  crossing,  the  space  reserved 
for  the  monks  themselves,  and  here,  beneath 
the  great  east  window,  was  the  high  altar.  The 

[100] 


BBBBBB. 


TINTERN 

enclosure  to  the  west  was  for  the  use  of  the  lay 
brothers,  who  frequently  largely  outnumbered 
the  monks.  The  latter  came  by  day  for  their 
many  services  through  the  aisle  door  to  the 
cloisters,  by  night  down  the  long  flight  of  steps 
in  the  transept  from  the  "dorter,"  which  was 
above  the  chapter  house  and  day  room:  the 
"conversi"  or  lay  brothers,  entered  from  the 
extreme  west  of  the  nave,  their  quarters  always 
adjoining  the  church  at  the  west  end.  In  ad- 
dition to  the  walls  already  named  there  were 
those  that  divided  the  transept  altars  one  from 
another.  Sometimes,  in  Cistercian  churches, 
the  nave  was  still  further  subdivided  by  a  rood 
screen  a  bay  or  two  to  the  west  of  the  pulpitum. 
As  the  churches  of  the  order  were  invariably 
dedicated  to  the  Blessed  Virgin,  the  eastern 
Lady  chapel  was  unnecessary,  and  is  never 
found  in  Cistercian  establishments. 

As  we  have  seen  in  the  case  of  Netley,  the 
original  principles  of  the  Cistercians  forbade 
all  ornament  in  the  shape  of  carving,  painting, 
glass,  embroidery,  and  goldsmith's  work;  but 
it  is  doubtful  if  these  rigid  laws  were  ever  wholly 
enforced:  as  a  matter  of  fact,  one  of  the  first 
times  stained  glass  is  mentioned  in  England  is 
in  the  year  1140,  in  connection  with  certain 
windows  in  Rievaulx  Abbey,  the  chief  and  head 

[101] 


TINTERN 

of  all  the  English  Cistercian  houses.  And 
here  at  Tintern,  severe  and  simple  as  is  the  fabric 
of  the  church  itself,  the  random  fragments  of 
defaced  sculpture  that  are  piled  in  heaps  indi- 
cate very  clearly  that  in  the  fourteenth  and 
fifteenth  centuries  the  function  of  art  as  the 
most  faithful  handmaid  of  religion  had  been 
duly  recognized.  The  Cistercian  and  the  Puri- 
tan each  rejected  beauty  for  the  same  reason; 
the  Puritan  never  learned  his  error,  the  Cister- 
cian had  but  to  enunciate  his  doctrine  of  renun- 
ciation to  prove  its  fallacy,  even  to  himself: 
the  first  became  the  synonym  for  aesthetic  igno- 
rance and  wilful  blindness  to  a  very  potent  agency 
for  salvation:  the  second  left  his  name  linked 
forever  with  one  of  the  noblest  phases  of  a  noble 
art,  and  as  well  with  the  very  foundation  of 
English  civilization. 

It  is  a  very  terrible  thing  to  scrutinize  these 
heaped  up  fragments  of  wilfully  shattered  glory, 
these  shapeless  blocks  of  moss-covered  stone, 
some  one  facet  of  which  is  sure  to  show  a  space 
of  subtly  chiselled  tracery  or  an  hand's  breadth 
of  tender  foliage  wrought  with  love  and  enthu- 
siasm out  of  the  ready  rock.  As  one  turns  over 
stone  after  stone  in  search  of  scraps  of  art,  or 
digs  with  a  penknife  through  deep  layers  of 
moss  to  free  some  lovely  capital  to  the  eye,  one 

[102] 


TINTERN 

realizes  what,  to  art  at  least,  the  Suppression 
actually  meant. 

Where  they  belonged,  these  poor  little  frag- 
ments of  pure  beauty,  it  is  impossible  to  say, 
many  of  them  in  altars,  reredoses  and  shrines, 
others  undoubtedly  in  the  great  rood  screen 
that  separated  the  monks'  choir  from  that  of 
the  lay  brothers,  and  against  which  to  the  west 
stood  the  altar  of  the  conversi.  One  speculates 
in  vain  as  to  how  this,  or  any  other  abbey, 
must  have  looked  in  the  last  year  of  the  fifteenth 
century.  With  its  great  windows  filled  with 
splendid  glass  (like  that  perhaps  still  preserved 
at  Malvern),  its  many  altars  and  shrines  wrought 
in  such  fashion  as  all  the  wealth  of  a  great  "  cap- 
tain of  industry"  could  not  bring  into  being 
to-day;  its  myriad  lights,  its  vestments  stiff 
with  needlework  and  jewels;  its  long  proces- 
sions of  white-robed  monks,  its  longer  lines  of 
cowled  conversi;  its  constant  visitors,  bishops, 
cardinals,  nobles,  and  even  kings  —  it  must 
have  been  a  marvellous  concatenation  of  varied 
beauty.  And  at  midnight,  when  the  great 
church  was  black  and  silent  save  for  the  candles 
on  the  high  altar,  the  lamps  before  the  shrines, 
and  the  tapers  at  the  huge  lectern  and  in  the 
stalls;  when  down  the  transept  stairway  came 
the  long  file  of  white  brothers,  cowled  and  dumb, 

[103] 


TINTERN        , 

for  the  first  offices  of  the  new  day,  Matins  and 
Lauds ;  and  when,  assembled  in  the  dusky  choir, 
each  monk  in  his  carven  and  canopied  stall, 
the  antiphonal  chants  surged  back  and  forth 
through  the  dark,  it  must  have  been  unparalleled 
in  its  effect  of  solemnity  and  awe. 

The  remains  of  the  monastic  buildings  are 
sufficiently  complete  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  the 
arrangement  of  such  an  house  as  this.  The  Cis- 
tercian plan  is  almost  invariable:  the  cloister 
is  the  centre  of  everything,  and  lies  almost 
always  south  and  west  of  the  south  transept. 
At  Tintern  the  conventual  buildings  lay  to  the 
north,  probably  in  order  that  the  slope  of  the 
land  toward  the  river  might  furnish  better 
drainage.  All  the  rooms  reserved  for  the  monks 
and  lay  brothers  —  except  the  infirmary,  which 
always  lay  to  the  east  and  at  a  distance,  and 
in  later  times  the  lodgings  of  the  abbot  — 
opened  from  the  great  cloister.  This  was  far 
from  being  a  mere  passageway  —  it  was  the 
very  centre  of  the  common  life,  the  adjacent 
rooms  were  hardly  more  than  appendages. 
Ordinarily,  the  north  cloister,  adjoining  the 
nave  of  the  church,  was  the  one  warmed  by  the 
sun,  and  here  were  the  stone  seats  for  all  the 
brothers,  that  of  the  abbot  being  next  the  door 
of  the  church  and  in  a  position  from  which  he 

[104] 


TINTERN 

could  command  a  view  of  both  the  north  and 
east  cloisters.  At  the  southerly  end  of  the  east 
cloister  the  novice-master  held  his  training 
school;  the  west  walk  belonged  to  the  junior 
monks;  the  south,  being  always  cold  and  sun- 
less, was  used  simply  as  a  passageway,  and 
contained  the  great  stone  basins  where  the 
monks  washed  before  and  after  meals.  Usually 
the  door  from  the  outer  world  was  at  the 
western  end  of  the  south  cloister,  jealously 
guarded  by  the  porter,  that  no  one  might  be 
"  suffered  to  molest  or  trouble  the  said  novices 
or  monks  in  their  carrels  while  they  were  at  their 
books  within  the  cloister."*  These  "carrels" 
were  little  framed  compartments,  one  for  each 
monk,  where  he  might  give  himself  to  uninter- 
rupted study  of  copying  or  illumination,  and 
at  the  same  time  be  somewhat  protected  from 
the  cold  in  winter:  they  were  "finely  wain- 
scotted  and  very  close,  all  but  the  fore  part  which 
had  carved  work  to  give  light  in  at  their  carrel 
doors.  And  in  every  carrel  was  a  desk  to  lie 
their  books  on  and  the  carrel  was  no  greater 
than  from  one  stanchell  of  the  window  to  an- 
other. And  over  against  the  carrels,  against 
the  church  wall  did  stand  certain  great  aumbries 
of  wainscott  all  full  of  books,  with  great  store 

*"The  Rites  of  Durham." 

[  105  ] 


TINTERN 

of  antient  manuscripts  to  help  them  in  their 
study  ...  so  that  every  one  did  study  what 
Doctor  pleased  him  best,  having  the  library  at  all 
times  to  go  and  study  in  besides  these  carrels."* 

This  description  applies  more  closely  to  Bene- 
dictine than  to  Cistercian  monasteries,  for  the 
latter  order  was  not  as  passionately  addicted 
to  learning  as  was  the  former,  yet  in  every 
monastery  the  cloister  was  the  great  centre  of 
common  life:  unfortunately,  not  one  Cistercian 
cloister  remains  in  all  Great  Britain,  therefore 
we  can  know  little  of  its  distinctive  features. 
How  important  it  was  is  shown  by  the  fact  that 
here  at  Tintern,  for  instance,  the  Earl  of  Pem- 
broke left  by  will,  in  1491,  one  hundred  tons 
of  stone  for  the  building  of  a  new  cloister:  the 
work  had  hardly  begun  at  the  time  of  the  Sup- 
pression, and  only  a  few  fragments  now  remain, 
showing  how  rich  and  elaborate  in  its  Perpen- 
dicular detail  this  fine  new  cloister  would  have 
been.  Judging  from  the  stones  that  still  stand, 
it  would  have  rivalled  even  that  of  Gloucester 
itself. 

Opening  from  the  cloister  to  the  east,  and 
adjoining  the  transept  wall,  are  two  small  rooms, 
one  a  sacristy,  the  other  perhaps  a  place  of 
public  penance.  Next  them  is  the  chapter 

*  "The  Rites  of  Durham." 

[106] 


TINTERN 

house,  the  executive,  spiritual,  and  disciplinary 
centre  of  the  entire  monastery.  Here  were  as- 
sembled daily,  after  the  chapter  mass,  all  the 
religious  under  the  presidency  of  the  abbot,  or, 
in  his  absence,  of  the  prior,  for  the  reading  of 
the  Martyrology,  the  morning  prayers,  legisla- 
tion, discipline,  transaction  of  temporal  busi- 
ness, affixing  of  seals,  drafting  of  official  letters, 
hearing  the  petitions  of  postulants,  indeed  all 
the  corporate  affairs  of  the  community.  Ad- 
joining the  chapter  house  is  a  small  room,  pos- 
sibly a  library,  then  follows  the  slype,  or  passage 
to  the  graveyard  and  infirmary,  and  at  the  end 
on  this  side  the  monks'  day  room,  once  a  very 
beautiful  apartment  with  a  vaulted  ceiling  sup- 
ported by  a  central  row  of  slender  columns. 
Turning  the  corner  of  the  cloister  we  come 
next  to  the  hall  and  stairway  to  the  great  dormi- 
tory or  "dorter,"  which  took  in  all  the  second 
story  of  the  eastern  range  of  buildings,  abutting 
against  the  transept,  where  the  night  stairway 
led  down  into  the  church.  Midway  of  the  north 
cloister  stood  the  refectory,  commonly  called 
the  "fratry,"  though  this  name  is  sometimes 
given  the  day  room.  This  apartment  was 
always  third  in  dignity,  the  church  and  chapter 
house  alone  taking  precedence.  Here  at  Tin- 
tern  it  was  a  very  noble  room,  about  eighty  feet 

[107] 


TINTERN 

long  and  nearly  thirty  feet  wide,  lighted  by 
beautiful  and  interesting  windows,  showing 
the  transition  from  thirteenth  to  fourteenth  cen- 
tury modes;  the  pulpit,  which  has  wholly  dis- 
appeared, except  for  its  stairway,  occupied  its 
regular  position  in  the  midst  of  the  west  wall. 
Between  the  refectory  and  day  room  was  the 
warming  room,  with  a  curious  chimney  that 
takes  one  back  almost  to  the  time  when  fires 
were  built  in  the  middle  of  the  floor,  the  smoke 
escaping  as  best  it  could  through  an  opening 
in  the  roof;  here  the  hearth  is  full  in  the  midst 
of  the  room,  but  a  great  stone  hood  is  over  it, 
supported  on  masonry  piers,  the  flue  rising 
from  the  apex  of  the  hood :  the  fire  was,  of  course, 
accessible  from  four  sides,  and  must  have 
wasted  none  of  its  heat,  which  was  undoubtedly 
welcome  enough  to  the  monks,  numb  from  two 
hours  of  midnight  devotions  in  the  icy  church 
in  midwinter.  In  a  corresponding  position  to 
the  west  of  the  refectory  was  the  kitchen,  and 
beyond  this,  filling  in  the  west  side  of  the  cloister, 
was  the  house  of  the  lay  brothers. 

This  was  the  standard  monastic  type;  the 
variants  from  it,  while  numerous,  were  unimpor- 
tant, except  in  so  far,  of  course,  as  the  houses  of 
the  Carthusians  and  Gilbertines  were  concerned. 
Having  seen  one  group  such  as  this  at  Tintern, 

[108] 


TINTERN 

you  have  seen  all,  but  in  point  of  plan  alone: 
their  architectural  and  pictorial  variety  is  meas- 
ured only  by  the  number  of  the  ruins  that  still 
remain  from  the  dark  ages  of  the  early  sixteenth 
century.  The  thirteenth  century  was  the  great 
age  of  monastic  building,  and  it  was  so  well  done 
that  unless  conflagrations  made  new  work  neces- 
sary, little  or  nothing  was  added  to  the  monastic 
buildings  themselves,  apart  from  the  churches, 
which  were  receiving  constant  additions  in  the 
shape  of  altars,  chapels,  chantries,  and  even 
new  choirs,  towers,  and  cloisters.  The  archi- 
tecture of  this  time  has  suffered  more  than  that 
of  any  succeeding  period  through  the  wilful 
destruction  of  the  monasteries,  which  were  the 
noblest  and  most  perfect  examples  of  this  first 
and  purest  form  of  English  Gothic. 

The  history  of  Tintern  has  largely  sunk  into 
absolute  oblivion.  When  at  last  the  Marquis 
of  Worcester,  for  his  devoted  and  whole-souled 
loyalty  to  his  king,  surrendered  Raglan  Castle 
to  the  Crumwellian  army,  after  a  masterly 
defence  that  has  been  well  recorded  in  George 
McDonald's  "St.  George  and  St.  Michael," 
the  castle  was  ruthlessly  burned,  and  with  it 
perished  not  alone  the  records  of  his  son's  many 
inventions  and  his  own  great  library,  but  also 
the  abbey  records,  which  had  been  removed 

[109] 


TINTERN 

from  Tintern  when  the  mutilated  monument 
was  granted  to  the  Marquis's  ancestor,  the  Earl 
of  Worcester,  by  Henry  VIII.  We  know  that 
the  first  foundation  of  a  monastery  on  this  site 
was  at  the  hands  of  a  son  of  Richard  de  Bienfaite, 
a  cousin  of  William  the  Conqueror,  who  assumed 
the  family  name  of  Clare  from  one  of  the  Suffolk 
manors  granted  to  him  by  the  new  king.  Walter, 
the  third  son,  founded  the  abbey  in  1131,  died 
without  issue,  and  was  buried  in  the  abbey  in 
1139.  He  was  succeeded  by  his  nephew,  Gil- 
bert "  Strongbow,"  who  was  also  buried  at  Tin- 
tern  in  1149.  His  granddaughter  Isabel  married 
William  Marshall,  Earl  of  Pembroke;  and  her 
daughter,  marrying  Hugh  Bigod,  brought  the 
estates  to  the  ducal  house  of  Norfolk;  her 
grand-nephew,  Roger  Bigod,  becoming  the  true 
founder  of  the  Cistercian  abbey  of  Tintern, 
A.D.  1269.  This  was  in  the  midst  of  the  great 
days  of  King  Henry  III.,  Prince  Edward, 
Stephen  Langton,  Robert  Grosseteste,  Simon 
de  Montfort,  and  Gilbert  de  Clare,  Earl  of 
Gloucester,  himself  a  descendant  of  the  first 
founder  of  Tintern  Abbey.  Two  years  before, 
the  barons  had  won  their  fight  against  Henry 
III.  for  constitutional  government  in  England, 
and  the  people,  throwing  off  the  last  of  their  for- 
eign shackles,  had  become  once  more  a  nation. 

[110] 


TINTERN 

When  the  new  Cistercian  foundation  came  into 
being,  Prince  Edward  was  on  Crusade,  so  utterly 
was  the  kingdom  at  peace;  and  three  years  after 
the  corner-stone  was  laid  he  returned  to  rejuve- 
nated England  as  king,  and  king  of  all  the 
people. 

It  is  well  to  remember,  in  studying  these 
monastic  remains,  that  it  is  to  the  Cistercians 
in  a  very  large  degree  that  we  owe  the  arousing 
of  the  English  people  against  Stephen,  John, 
and  those  others  of  the  French  line  of  monarchs 
who  were  doing  their  best  to  make  England 
a  wilderness,  or  worse.  At  the  accession  of 
Stephen,  the  Church,  wholly  under  the  dominion 
of  Norman  bishops,  had  almost  ceased  to  be  the 
moral  and  spiritual  head  of  the  people.  The 
Benedictine  order  had  suffered  with  the  rest, 
but  the  coming  of  the  Cistercians  brought  a  new 
and  wholesome  life.  "At  the  close  of  Henry's 
reign,  and  throughout  the  reign  of  Stephen, 
England  was  stirred  by  the  first  of  those  great 
religious  movements  which  it  was  to  experience 
afterwards.  .  .  .  Everywhere,  in  town  and  coun- 
try, men  banded  themselves  together  for  prayer : 
hermits  flocked  to  the  woods:  noble  and  churl 
welcomed  the  austere  Cistercians,  a  reformed 
offshoot  of  the  Benedictine  order,  as  they 
spread  over  the  moors  and  forests  of  the  north. 

[in] 


TINTERN 

.  .  .  The  paralysis  of  the  Church  ceased  as  the 
new  impulse  bound  prelacy  and  people  together, 
and  at  the  moment  we  have  reached  its  power 
was  found  strong  enough  to  wrest  England  out 
of  the  chaos  of  feudal  misrule."*  It  was  indeed 
the  bishops  who  led  —  men  like  Theobald  of 
Canterbury,  and  St.  Thomas  a  Becket,  as  earlier 
St.  Anselm  had  fought  against  William  Rufus, 
as  later  Stephen  Langton,  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, was  to  set  himself  against  John.  But 
the  bishops  would  have  been  helpless  without 
the  supporting  will  of  the  people,  and  for  this 
we  must  thank  in  great  measure  the  stern  and 
uncompromising  monks  who  were  gathered  to- 
gether by  St.  Robert  of  Molesme,  organized  by 
the  Englishman,  St.  Stephen  Harding,  and  in- 
spired by  St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  This  brought 
a  new  righteousness  into  England,  heartened  an 
oppressed  and  miserable  race,  and  led  to  Magna 
Carta.  The  ruined  abbeys  of  Great  Britain 
stand  not  alone  for  a  great  epoch  of  art,  a  mile- 
stone in  the  progress  of  civilization,  an  absorbing 
and  unique  episode  in  social  progress,  they  are 
as  well  the  visible,  yet  vanishing,  records  of  a 
mighty  movement  that  brought  a  people  out  of 
bondage,  and  made  England  a  great,  a  powerful, 
and,  for  many  centuries,  a  righteous  nation. 

*  Green:  "  History  of  the  English  People." 

[112] 


Tintern — The  Interior,   Looking  East. 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

WE  have  already  seen  something  of 
the  two  greatest  orders  of  monas- 
ticism;  first,  the  Benedictine,  sire  of 
all  others,  founded  by  St.  Benedict  in  the  sixth 
century,  the  great  power  that  not  only  saved 
the  results  of  classical  civilization  to  the  world, 
but  made  of  no  avail  the  deluge  of  barbarism 
that  swept  over  civilized  Europe  during  the 
Dark  Ages,  and  actually  became  the  creative 
force  that,  more  than  any  other  single  institu- 
tion or  movement,  laid  the  foundations  and 
guaranteed  the  development  of  that  great  epoch 
of  Christian  civilization  that  covered  the  mighty 
thousand  years  from  the  promulgation  of  the 
Rule  of  St.  Benedict  in  the  middle  of  the 
sixth  century  to  the  final  suppression  in  Eng- 
land, A.D.  1539.  The  order  that  regenerated 
the  Church,  recreated  civil  society,  and  brought 
order  out  of  chaos;  that  organized  Christianity; 
that  gave  birth  to  Christian  art,  that  gave  to 
the  Church  some  of  its  greatest  saints,  its  most 
era-making  bishops,  and  was  at  one  time  so 

[113] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

supreme  in  spiritual  and  temporal  matters  that 
it  could  boast  thirty-seven  thousand  houses 
with,  at  the  smallest  computation,  one  million 
monks  scattered  over  the  entire  known  world 
—  the  order  that  civilized  half  of  pagan  Europe 
and  won  to  Christ  many  of  the  lands  now  com- 
prising the  great  powers  of  the  earth. 

Second,  the  Cistercian,  the  offshoot  from  the 
parent  stem,  the  creation  of  St.  Robert  of  Mo- 
lesme,  St.  Stephen  Harding,  and  St.  Bernard  of 
Clairvaux,  the  great  order  of  righteousness  and 
liberty  that  was  the  basic  force  in  the  revolts  of 
the  English  people  against  royal  tyranny  and 
incapacity,  and  to  which  may  be  traced  without 
exaggeration  so  much  that  is  fundamental  and 
enduring  in  the  character  of  our  race. 

It  is  now  time  to  turn  for  a  moment  to  yet 
another  order,  technically  independent  of  Bene- 
dictinism,  yet  actually  dependent  on  it  for  its 
ultimate  success,  the  Canons  Regular  of  St. 
Augustine,  who,  though  they  did  not  appear 
in  England  until  1108,  became  almost  more 
widely  popular  than  any  other  order,  boasting 
at  the  Suppression,  one  hundred  and  seventy 
houses,  at  which  time  the  revenues  of  Gisburgh, 
the  most  powerful  of  all,  were  exceeded  only 
by  three  houses  in  the  Province  of  York.  As 
from  the  Rule  of  St.  Benedict  many  other  move- 

[114] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

ments  were  derived,  so  from  that  called  of  St. 
Augustine  grew  several  powerful  and  singularly 
beneficent  offshots,  Norbertines  or  Praemonstra- 
tensians,  Gilbertines,  the  only  strictly  English 
order,  and  others.  It  was  a  peculiarly  vital 
movement,  and  one  which  should  be  very 
illuminating  and  suggestive  to  us  of  the  present 
time. 

The  monks  of  St.  Benedict  had  at  first  with- 
drawn from  a  world  at  that  time  impossible; 
the  revolt  showed  itself  a  little  later  among  the 
secular  clergy  who  still  remained  in  the  world 
and  served  the  cathedrals  and  parish  churches, 
retaining  the  cure  of  souls.  The  efforts  amounted 
to  little,  so  far  as  we  can  judge.  Chrodegang, 
Archbishop  of  Metz,  was  the  first  to  impose 
on  his  cathedral  clergy  a  rule  of  life,  with  the 
customary  vows,  but  without  the  obligation  to 
manual  labour.  After  the  death  of  Chrodegang 
in  764,  an  effort  was  made  to  extend  his  rule  to 
all  secular  clergy,  but  the  attempt  failed  com- 
pletely, and  conditions  reverted  to  their  original 
bad  estate.  In  856  Amalarius,  a  canon  of 
Metz,  supported  by  Charlemagne's  son,  Louis 
the  Pious,  made  another  attempt  in  the  same 
direction,  with  only  a  measure  of  success.  The 
Council  of  the  Lateran  in  1509  took  up  the 
work,  and  finally  Pope  Alexander  II.  in  1063, 

[115] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

formally  established  the  order  of  Regular  Can- 
ons, which  immediately  took  root  in  England  in 
Lanfranc's  church  of  St.  Gregory  in  Canter- 
bury, whence  it  spread  all  over  the  island  king- 
doms. 

While  known  officially  as  canons,  they  were 
distinctly  monks,  not  friars:  they  lived  in  com- 
munity, observed  the  vows  of  poverty,  chastity, 
and  obedience,  and  maintained  the  same  life 
of  constant  prayer  and  devotion.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  canons  were  all  in  priest's  orders: 
they  were  not  bound  to  manual  labour;  they 
were  very  directly  under  Episcopal  control; 
they  served  in  person  all  the  parishes  and  chapels 
impropriated  to  them,  and  formed  in  a  way  a 
body  of  missionaries,  upon  whom  the  ordinary 
could  call  for  specified  service  at  any  time.  Even 
their  great  monastic  churches  were  almost  paro- 
chial, in  that  the  canons  were  confined  to  the 
choir,  while  the  nave  was  exclusively  for  the  use 
of  the  laity.  Their  habit  was  simply  that  of 
the  secular  canons,  cassock,  cloak,  and  biretta 
of  black,  with  a  white  surplice  or  rochet;  the 
Prsemonstratensians  were  clothed  wholly  in 
white,  even  to  their  birettas,  and  were  called 
"White  Canons"  as  the  Augustinians  were  com- 
monly known  as  the  "  Black  Canons." 

The  hundred  and  seventy  houses  were  thick 
[116] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

in  the  eastern  and  central  counties,  but  thinly 
placed  in  the  north,  the  west,  and  in  Wales. 
Many  have  become  parish  churches,  as,  for  in- 
stance, Cirencester,  Ipswich,  and  Dorchester  — 
in  which  latter  place  one  finds  with  grateful 
amazement  much  of  the  old  order  restored, 
with  services  as  multitudinous  and  as  rich  in 
ceremonial  as  though  three  and  a  half  centuries 
of  darkness  had  not  intervened  between  the  old 
regime  and  the  new.  Two  cathedrals  only, 
Carlisle  and  Oxford,  stand  on  Augustinian 
foundations,  whilst  the  greatest  houses  of  all 
have  been  utterly  swept  away,  remaining  only 
a  vague  memory,  as  in  the  case  of  the  world- 
famous  Osney  in  Oxford  (the  site  of  which  is 
now  consecrated  to  railway  sidings  and  gas- 
ometers); or  in  the  shape  of  an  even  more 
tantalizing  hint,  as  at  Gisburgh. 

The  fate  of  this  great  abbey  is  melancholy 
in  the  extreme.  During  its  life  of  more  than 
four  centuries  it  was  honourable  above  its 
fellows;  it  was  distinguished  in  its  birth,  rich, 
powerful,  and  beneficent  to  an  unusual  degree, 
and  as  well  one  of  the  most  noble  examples  of 
fourteenth  century  Gothic  in  all  England.  Ex- 
alted in  its  life,  it  was  brought  correspondingly 
low  in  death,  being  granted  to  the  most  profligate 
and  evil  of  Crumwell's  "visitors,"  Thomas 

[117] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

Legh,  and  by  him  transferred  a  little  later  to 
one  Chaloner,  who  turned  the  ruins  of  one  of  the 
wonders  of  England  into  a  stone  quarry.  It 
was  once  three  hundred  and  eighty  feet  long, 
one  hundred  and  seventy-five  feet  across  the 
transepts,  and  seventy-five  feet  high  to  the  crown 
of  the  vault.  The  monastic  buildings  reached 
out  in  every  direction,  covering  several  acres; 
there  now  remains  the  east  wall  of  the  choir, 
and  nothing  more  of  any  kind  whatever,  except 
a  few  foundation  stones  in  the  velvet  turf;  not 
a  shaft,  not  an  arch,  not  a  foot  of  wall,  the  east 
end  rising  against  the  sky  like  an  architect's 
working  drawing,  preserved  as  a  consequence 
of  unwonted  laziness  or  from  some  still  less 
wonted  dim  apprehension  of  immortal  beauty,  a 
mighty  and  sorrowful  decoration  in  a  gentle- 
man's pleasure  garden. 

Gisburgh  was  founded,  A.D.  1129,  by  Robert 
de  Brus,  of  Skelton,  his  wife  Agnes,  and  his  son 
Adam,  at  the  instigation  of  Turstan,  Archbishop 
of  York.  He  was  the  eldest  son  of  Robert  de 
Brus,  who  came  over  with  William  the  Norman, 
and  brother  to  the  founder  of  the  Scottish  house 
from  which  came  Robert  the  Bruce.  As  was 
usually  the  case  the  monastery  remained  for 
generations  under  the  protection  and  patronage 
of  its  founder's  family,  while  it  became  the  re- 

[118] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

cipient  of  constant  favours  from,  and  the  chosen 
place  of  sepulture  for,  all  the  neighbouring  no- 
bility. Brus  after  Brus  found  interment  within 
its  walls,  together  with  Percys,  Nevils,  Latymers, 
D'Arcys;  and  at  the  very  end,  during  the  ominous 
reign  of  Henry  himself,  a  marvellous  cenotaph 
in  honour  of  the  House  of  Brus,  or  Bruce,  was 
erected  here  at  the  instance  of  Margaret  Tudor, 
only  to  be  crushed  into  fragments  a  few  years 
later,  and  dispersed  abroad,  chiselled  stones 
remaining  to  this  day  built  up  into  the  altar  of 
the  parish  church,  forming  part  of  its  pavement, 
or  serving  as  makeshift  building  material  in  the 
walls  of  the  same  church  porch. 

From  the  beginning  the  abbey  was  overtaken 
by  one  disaster  after  another.  What  became 
of  the  first  Norman  buildings  is  unknown;  the 
second,  erected  in  the  great  central  years  of  the 
thirteenth  century,  were  burned  in  1289,  through 
the  carelessness  of  a  "vile  plumber  with  a  wicked 
disposition.'*  The  third  church  was  completed 
about  1300,  and  again  burned,  but  this  time 
the  fabric  was  so  massive  it  resisted  total  destruc- 
tion, and  was  rapidly  rebuilt,  1320-1330,  there- 
after standing  safe  until  a  more  devastating 
visitation  than  fire  involved  all  in  irreparable 
ruin. 

This  sequence  of  conflagrations,  which  is 
[119] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

typical  of  mediaeval  religious  houses  generally, 
shows  very  clearly  the  perils  that  beset  the  vast 
libraries  and  the  innumerable  works  of  art  that 
were  the  pride  of  Christian  civilization  during 
the  great  thousand  years.  From  the  sixth  cen- 
tury down,  we  read  in  record  and  chronicle 
stories  of  the  noble  libraries  in  even  the  smaller 
monasteries,  that  convey  a  somewhat  different 
impression  of  "monkish  ignorance  and  super- 
stition*' during  the  curiously  misnamed  "Dark 
Ages"  to  that  acquired  from  the  unscrupulous 
statements  of  special-pleader  historians;  and 
when  we  take  into  account  the  innumerable  raids 
of  barbarians,  the  assaults  and  spoliations  of 
kings,  and  these  same  repeated  conflagrations,  we 
can  only  wonder  that  one  mediaeval  manuscript 
has  come  down  to  us;  yet,  so  constant  was  the 
industry  of  the  monks,  thousands  of  marvellous 
books,  sacred  and  "profane,"  remained  to  fall  a 
victim  to  the  Lutherans  in  Germany,  the  Calvin- 
ists  and  Huguenots  in  France,  and  the  brigands 
of  our  own  country.  Those  who  care  for  the  evi- 
dences of  the  vast  learning  and  the  great  multi- 
tude of  books  that  overspread  Europe  during 
mediaeval  times  have  but  to  consult  "  The  Monks 
of  the  West,"  by  Montalembert;  "Henry  VIII. 
and  the  English  Monasteries,"  by  Dr.  Gasquet; 
and,  above  all,  Maitland's  "Dark  Ages,"  and 

[120] 


Gisburgh — A  Ruined  Sanctuary. 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

they  will  find  a  surplus  of  proof  that  books  did 
exist  before  the  invention  of  printing,  and  that 
the  rebirth  of  learning  and  the  Renaissance  are 
by  no  means  synonymous  terms. 

When  the  last  building  was  completed,  about 
1330,  the  great  fabric  stood  perhaps  the  most 
perfect  example  of  fourteenth  century  architec- 
ture in  Great  Britain.  The  Black  Death  that 
followed  so  soon  after  gave  a  terrible  and  almost 
fatal  blow  to  English  civilization,  and  for  a 
time  art  halted  and  fell  back,  but  the  years  that 
saw  Gisburgh  (or  Guisborough,  as  it  is  now 
written,  with  no  show  of  authority  whatever) 
grow  into  greatness  —  1290-1330  —  were  years 
of  culmination,  and  the  all  but  vanished  church 
was  a  fitting  and  adequate  monument  to  the 
supremacy  of  a  great  epoch.  The  church  was 
a  complete  and  consistent  design,  cruciform,  of 
course,  with  a  central  tower  and  two  others 
at  the  western  end;  it  was  built  of  a  rich,  warm- 
coloured  stone,  hard  and  fine;  vaulted  through- 
out, and  constructed  with  superb  solidity  and 
massiveness.  It  was  classical  in  its  majesty 
and  simplicity,  a  masterpiece  of  the  highest  type 
of  Gothic  design,  articulate,  consistent,  organic. 
A  Gothic  building  is  at  its  highest  point  of 
development  as  marvellous  in  its  intricate  sim- 
plicity, its  logical  organization  and  its  co-ordina- 

[121] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

tion  of  parts,  as  man  himself.  Nowhere  else 
in  the  range  of  human  achievement  is  anything 
to  be  found  which  approaches  such  a  church  as 
this  in  sheer  wonder  of  perfect  finality,  in  abso- 
lute science  linked  with  absolute  beauty.  Here 
stands  a  forlorn  fragment  of  towering  masonry, 
a  shard  saved  from  destruction,  a  handful  of 
chiselled  stones,  compared  with  the  mountain 
that  has  vanished;  yet,  so  faultless  is  its  art,  we 
can  almost  reconstruct  the  perished  wonder, 
proving  the  everlasting  truth  of  the  wise  saying, 
"Ex  pede,  Herculem" 

There  is  no  nobler  example  of  pure  and  per- 
fect proportion  now  existing  than  this :  it  is  con- 
summate in  its  balance,  its  mass,  its  relation  of 
solids  to  voids,  its  marvellous  sense  of  intimate 
relationship  between  a  multiplicity  of  parts. 
And  also  it  is  so  reserved,  so  self-contained,  so 
reasonably  contented  with  manly  achievement, 
without  the  mad  hunger  for  the  almost  impos- 
sible. There  is  no  frenzy  of  dizzy  vaults  poised 
perilously  in  air  at  the  mercy  of  a  treacherous 
scaffolding  of  laborious  flying  buttresses:  the 
arcade  shafts  are  big  enough  to  carry  the  piers 
that  take  the  thrust  of  the  vault  conoids  down 
to  the  point  where  the  aisle  vaults  and  their 
transverse  walls  transmit  the  thrust  across  the 
aisles  to  the  outer  buttresses.  It  is  all  sane, 

[122] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

scientific,  self-contained,  and  at  the  same  time 
vital  with  the  loftiest  and  most  crescent  inspira- 
tion. In  its  decoration,  also,  it  is  just  as  reserved 
and  high-bred.  Carving  of  the  richest  appears 
where  the  need  is  insistent,  but  it  is  not  lavished 
with  prodigality,  and  every  inch  of  it  is  delicate, 
exquisite,  living. 

Ralph  of  Glastonbury  and  William  of  Canter- 
bury and  all  the  other  great  builders  of  the  old 
days  whose  names  have  perished,  though  from 
human  records  only,  have  their  reward:  the 
abbeys  of  Netley,  Whitby,  Tintern,  Rievaulx, 
York,  Gisburg,  have  followed  in  their  course; 
and  Gothic  has  become  the  full,  sonorous,  vi- 
brant, and  mobile  language  of  Christian  civili- 
zation. 

It  is  not  too  much  to  say  that  the  tragedy 
involved  in  the  wilful  slaughter  of  such  a  build- 
ing as  this  is  insupportable.  There  is  little 
enough  absolute  beauty  in  the  world,  and  such 
as  there  is  is  slowly  passing  away,  with  little  of 
new  offered  to  make  good  the  loss.  We  are  on 
the  eve  of  a  new  epoch,  a  rediscovery  of  relative 
values,  a  new  consciousness  of  the  relation  of 
religion  to  life,  of  the  essential  quality  of  art,  and 
the  connection  eternally  existing  between  it 
and  religion  and  civilization.  That  which  satis- 
fied the  last  four  centuries  will  not  serve  for  us: 

[123] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

already  the  revolt  is  hot  against  the  miserable 
changeling  that  has  passed  so  long  for  the  art 
of  architecture.  The  old  laws  must  be  re-dis- 
covered, the  old  principles  restored  to  life,  but 
no  studious  monks  have  preserved  for  us  through 
the  true  Dark  Ages  the  memorials  of  a  perished 
civilization.  For  generations  the  hand  of  every 
man  was  against  these  perfect  records :  hate  and 
greed  preyed  on  them  at  will,  and  later  a  foolish 
dilettanteism  wrought  even  greater  destruction 
under  the  guise  of  "restoration."  Now,  when 
we  creep  back  to  solve  the  problem  of  the  essence 
of  really  great  art,  we  are  confronted  by  legends 
and  traditions  of  wonders  that  once  rose  in  fields, 
now  vacant  of  any  trace;  by  fabrics  that  endured 
through  three  centuries  of  scornful  neglect,  only 
to  die  at  last  by  the  paring  and  scraping  and 
substitution  of  well-meaning  restorers,  or,  per- 
haps, by  ghosts  like  this  of  Gisburgh.  In 
simple  truth,  the  tragedy  is  unsupportable. 

When  we  turn  from  this  once  majestic  house 
and  cross  the  moors  of  Yorkshire  to  that  other 
Augustinian  foundation  in  the  valley  of  the 
Wharfe,  we  come  upon  a  very  different  scene, 
confront  a  memorial  of  the  past  widely  sun- 
dered in  every  way  from  the  richest  and  most 
powerful  of  all  Augustinian  houses.  Gisburgh 
was  almost  a  principality,  and  we  read  how 

[124] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

"the  Prior  kept  a  most  pompous  house,  inso- 
much that  the  towne,  consystinge  of  five  hun- 
dred householders,  hade  no  lande,  but  lyved 
all  on  the  Abbay."  It  maintained  upwards  of 
thirty  parish  churches  at  its  own  expense  in 
England,  as  well  as  several  in  Scotland;  at  the 
Suppression  its  revenues  were  the  equivalent 
of  nearly  $40,000  per  annum,  but  Bolton  was  a 
little  church  and  a  little  monastery  hidden  in 
the  Yorkshire  hills  with,  in  its  best  estate,  only 
some  two  hundred  souls  in  its  household  as 
compared  with  the  seven  or  eight  hundred  of 
Gisburgh,  and  an  annual  rent  roll  at  the  Sup- 
pression of  but  $12,000.  Two  centuries  earlier, 
however,  conditions  were  somewhat  different, 
for  in  1299  the  annual  income  was  more  than 
$50,000,  the  cattle  numbered  seven  hundred  and 
thirteen,  the  sheep  two  thousand  one  hundred 
and  ninety-three.  It  was  at  this  time  that  the 
priory  reached  its  height  of  material  prosperity. 
The  prior  maintained  his  state  on  ample  and 
magnificent  lines.  Besides  himself  and  his 
eighteen  or  twenty  canons,  there  were  a  few  lay 
brothers,  twenty  or  more  men-at-arms,  each  with 
his  body  servant,  twenty  or  thirty  free  servants 
in  the  house  itself,  and  an  hundred  more  on  the 
many  farms  and  granges,  and  finally  bond- 
servants, twenty  of  whom  were  assigned  to  the 

[125] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

service  of  the  prior.  Among  the  free  servants 
are  enumerated  in  the  Compotus,  a  master 
carpenter,  two  cooks,  a  brewer,  a  cellarer,  a 
baker,  a  master  smith,  a  chief  forester,  a  bell- 
man, a  sackman,  and  a  physician!  It  was  really 
a  great  fedual  community,  bound  together  under 
the  lordship  of  the  prior.  That  the  hundreds 
of  tenants  were  mercifully  and  generously  treated 
we  know  from  contemporary  records;  that  the 
household  lived  amply  is  proved  by  the  authen- 
tic list  of  one  year's  provisions:  viz.,  319  quarters 
of  wheat  flour,  112  quarters  of  barley  meal,  80 
quarters  of  oatmeal,  636  quarters  of  oats  malted 
for  ale,  64  oxen,  35  cows,  140  sheep,  69  pigs, 
113  stone  of  butter,  4  quarters  of  fine  flour 
for  pastry,  147  stone  of  ewe's  milk  cheese,  and, 
mirabile  dictu,  1,800  gallons  of  wine!  Of  course 
we  must  bear  in  mind  that  all  this  vast  quantity 
of  food  was  not  consumed  by  the  two  hundred 
members  of  the  household  alone :  every  monastery 
was  an  inn,  a  place  of  refuge,  a  centre  for  wide 
charity,  and  a  place  of  entertainment  for  the 
nobles,  knights,  and  ecclesiastics  of  the  neigh- 
bourhood. Perhaps,  after  making  due  allowance 
for  hospitality,  we  shall  find  that  the  above  list 
does  not  prove  so  clearly  as  one  might  think  the 
luxury  and  feasting  so  often  and  so  carelessly 
attributed  to  the  monastic  orders.  For  instance, 

[126] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

in  1303,  when  Bolton  entertained  Sir  William 
de  Hamelton  with  his  huntsmen  and  hounds, 
twenty-two  quarters  of  wheat  were  consumed 
by  the  visiting  party  alone;  it  is  therefore  quite 
safe  to  assume  that  hospitality  answers  in  a 
large  measure  for  the  long  lists  of  supplies 
annually  consumed  in  any  house. 

In  spite  of  its  great  wealth  during  the  thir- 
teenth and  fourteenth  centuries,  however,  the 
Canons  of  Bolton  were  never  amongst  those  who 
cared  much  for  great  building.  The  ruins  of 
the  priory  show  a  rather  shapeless  and  casual 
structure,  incorporating  work  of  many  centuries. 
The  original  church  was  a  small  cruciform 
building,  Norman  in  style,  and  without  aisles 
or  tower.  When  in  1154  the  house  of  Augus- 
tinian  Canons  that  had  been  founded  thirty 
years  earlier  at  Embsay  by  William  de  Meschines 
and  his  wife  Cecilia  was  translated  to  Bolton 
by  their  daughter  Adeliza,  in  sorrowful  memorial 
of  her  only  son,  "The  Boy  of  Egremond,"  who 
had  been  drowned  at  the  Strid,  the  extension 
and  rebuilding  of  the  old  parish  church  began. 
Little  by  little  it  was  patched  up,  added  to,  em- 
bellished; but  no  general  rebuilding  ever  took 
place,  for  although  the  canons  suffered  con- 
stantly at  the  hands  of  Scottish  invaders,  the 
church  was  never  wholly  destroyed,  and  on  the 

[127] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

day  of  dissolution  in  1540  it  still  remained  a 
thing  of  shreds  and  patches,  strangely  different 
to  the  princely  Gisburgh,  yet  not  without  a  cer- 
tain homely  charm  as  a  living  record  of  four 
centuries  of  varied  history. 

Even  then,  at  that  last  day,  scaffoldings 
enwrapped  the  west  end  of  the  church,  and  the 
air  was  full  of  the  sound  of  mallet  and  chisel, 
for  Prior  Moon  had  begun  in  1520  the  erection 
of  a  fine  new  west  tower  which  had  already 
reached  the  level  of  the  roof  ridges  —  and  has 
risen  no  higher  since,  still  standing  unfinished 
and  even  roofless,  a  stern  reminder  in  the 
strength  and  delicacy  of  its  design  of  the  fact 
that  architecture  was  even  then  a  living  thing 
and  not  a  decaying  artifice,  as  some  have  held 
in  later  times. 

The  fame  of  Bolton  rests,  not  on  its  architec- 
ture, for  it  possesses  little  to  boast  of,  if  we  judge 
it  by  mediaeval  standards,  but  rather  on  its 
wonderful  situation,  its  environment  of  exquisite 
landscape,  the  pictorial  quality  of  its  ruins,  and 
a  little,  perhaps,  on  the  suggestion  of  its  name, 
which  arouses  in  our  minds  childish  memory  of 
a  Landseer  picture  that  once  formed  part  of  the 
decoration  of  every  well-regulated  dining-room 
some  thirty  or  forty  years  ago.  The  long,  aisle- 
less  choir  is  strong  and  fine  in  its  proportions, 

[128] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

poor  Prior  Moon's  never-to-be  finished  tower 
is  interesting  as  an  evidence  of  the  persistence 
of  sound  methods  even  to  the  end;  but  the  few 
architectural  excellencies  of  Bolton  are  matched 
and  mastered  almost  anywhere  else.  One  does 
not  go  there  for  the  finding  of  great  art,  but  for 
the  sheer  joy  of  an  infinite  succession  of  pictures, 
any  one  of  which  is  worth  a  day's  journey,  par- 
ticularly if  by  so  doing  one  can  get  away  from 
Leeds,  which  most  fortunately  can  be  easily 
accomplished. 

The  Yorkshire  moors  are  a  singular  joy  just 
here;  the  valley  of  the  Wharf e  is  a  miracle  of 
loveliness;  there  is  an  inn  close  by  which  is  a 
model  of  everything  an  English  inn  should  be, 
and  altogether  Bolton  is  just  the  place  to  seek 
refuge  in  for  a  day  or  two,  and  refresh  one's 
soul  with  a  few  dreams  under  monastic  walls, 
a  stroll  through  the  luxuriant  Wharfe  valley, 
and  a  stiff  climb  up  Greenhow  Hill.  But  Satur- 
days and  Bank  Holidays  are  to  be  sedulously 
avoided;  then  every  train  brings  troops  of 
"trippers,"  each  armed  with  a  luncheon  basket 
and  a  camera,  and  during  their  reign,  life  is  an 
impossibility. 

The  site  of  Bolton  is  indeed  ideal,  and  there 
is  little  wonder  it  makes  its  appeal  even  to  the 
denizens  of  Bradford  and  Leeds.  Just  here 

[129] 


the  tumbling  Wharfe,  cutting  its  way  through 
the  deep-forested  hills,  halts  for  rest  in  a  wide 
intervale  of  meadow  and  clustered  grove.  Here, 
where  the  abrupt  hills  open  out  into  a  spacious 
amphitheatre,  Bolton  Priory  rests  on  the  last 
low  headland  just  over  the  little  river,  backed 
by  terraced  verdure,  fronted  by  golden  meadows 
basking  in  the  sun.  It  is  a  place  of  infinite 
peace  (barring  the  Bank  Holiday  "trippers"), 
for  in  itself  it  is  like  a  glen  in  Avalon,  while  it 
has  been  spared  the  new  environment  of  mills, 
tenements,  or  trade  that  makes  Kirkstall,  Glas- 
tonbury,  and  even  Netley  impulses,  not  only  to 
useless  regrets  but  to  disquieting  mental  con- 
trasts and  uncomfortable  queries  as  to  the  eternal 
validity  of  established  standards. 

From  any  point  of  view,  the  modest  ruins 
take  on  a  certain  dignity  and  even  grandeur, 
lifting  as  they  do  with  such  invincible  self-respect 
above  the  deep  turf,  the  great  leaning  trees,  and 
the  rippling  river,  that,  daunted  for  the  moment 
by  a  sturdy  weir,  pauses  in  its  course  to  mirror 
the  tall  sanctuary.  Even  more  beautiful  are 
the  glimpses  one  gains  through  crumbling  door- 
ways and  vacant  arches  of  long,  sloping  sward, 
still  clumps  of  heavy  trees,  and  far,  wide  meadows 
bright  with  flowers  and  sun. 

Insignificant  though  the  church  most  surely 
[130] 


GISBURGH  AND  BOLTON 

is,  the  whole  group  must  have  been  impressive 
and  convincing,  for  the  wide-spread  buildings 
around  the  cloister  and  the  base  court,  the  prior's 
lodging  and  garden  to  the  east  and  on  the  brink 
of  the  river,  the  infirmary  away  to  the  south, 
with  the  guest  house  near  by,  the  great  gateway 
(now  a  part  of  the  Duke  of  Devonshire's  shoot- 
ing box)  well  to  the  west,  together  with  barns, 
granaries,  stables,  brew  houses,  and  all  the  multi- 
tude of  farm  buildings,  formed  a  wonderful 
group,  covering  many  acres.  It  was  indeed  a 
great  feudal  establishment,  a  self-centred  com- 
munity, tied  together  by  the  widely  sundered 
motives  of  religious  faith  and  personal  well- 
being,  one  of  those  patriarchal  households  that 
did  so  infinitely  much  to  develop  the  sterling 
character  of  the  race  and  the  agricultural  and 
industrial  stability  of  the  nation. 


[131] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

IN    that    debatable    border-country    of    the 
Scottish  Lowlands,  the  most  northerly  por- 
tion of  the  ancient  kingdom  of  Cumbria, 
where  "Tweed's  fair  river,  broad  and  deep," 
winds   slowly   down  to  Berwick   and  the  sea, 
stands  all  that  English  rage  and  Scottish  ruf- 
fianry  have  left  of  four  great  abbeys,  all  owing 
their  foundation  to  a  king  and  the  son  of   a 
king,  a  saint  and  the  son  of  a  saint. 

Before  William  the  Norman  invaded  Scotland 
and  wrung  a  lagging  homage  from  King  Mal- 
colm Canmore,  this  was  surely  a  wild  and  bar- 
barous country.  About  the  middle  of  the  ninth 
century,  the  region  about  Jedburgh  came  into 
the  possession  of  the  see  of  Lindisfarne,  and 
under  Bishop  Ecgred  a  church  was  established 
here.  A  century  later  Cumbria  became  a  feof 
of  the  English  kings,  and  was  held  of  them  by 
the  King  of  Scots,  the  first  instance  in  history 
when  this  relationship  was  established.  When 
Alexander  I.  succeeded  to  the  throne,  his  brother 
David  became  Prince  of  Cumbria,  being  the 

[132] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

last  to  bear  that  title.  Already  a  man  of  deep 
piety  and  powerful  character,  softened  and  civil- 
ized by  his  sojourn  at  the  English  court,  where 
he  had  gone  with  his  sister  Matilda  on  her  mar- 
riage with  Henry  I.,  he  showed  himself  a  worthy 
son  of  Malcolm  Canmore  and  St.  Margaret, 
and  set  about  the  progressive  civilization  of  his 
principality,  re-establishing  the  bishopric  of 
Glasgow,  severing  Teviotdale  from  the  diocese 
of  Durham,  and  loyally  carrying  out  the  reform 
of  the  Church  instituted  by  his  royal  parents. 
At  the  instigation  of  his  old  friend  and  teacher, 
John,  whom  he  had  made  Bishop  of  Glasgow, 
he  established  in  Jedburgh  about  1118  a  house 
of  Canons  Regular  of  St.  Augustine;  he  had 
already  founded  at  Selkirk,  a  house  of  Tiro- 
nensian  monks,  who  four  years  after  his  corona- 
tion were  to  be  transferred  to  Kelso.  Dryburgh 
was  not  to  follow  until  1150,  and  even  then  was 
to  owe  its  existence  technically  to  Lord  Lauder- 
dale,  Constable  of  Scotland,  though  there  is 
little  doubt  that  St.  David  was  the  moving  spirit 
in  the  project,  as  he  proved  its  most  munificent 
benefactor  and  patron.  Besides  the  abbeys 
already  named,  the  same  saintly  monarch 
founded  the  Augustinian  houses  of  Holyrood, 
and  Cambuskenneth  in  Sterling,  the  Cistercian 
Kinloss,  Newbattle  and  many  other  monasteries, 

[133] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

while  the  Knights  Templar  and  Knights  of  St. 
John  of  Jerusalem  came  into  the  kingdom  at 
his  call.  As  James  I.  of  Scots  said  of  him,  he 
was  indeed  "sair  saunct  for  the  croon!" 

At  first  a  simple  priory,  Jedburgh  was  in  the 
year  1147  raised  to  the  dignity  of  an  abbey 
under  Osbert  as  first  Abbot,  a  man  of  notable 
learning  and  great  piety.  Thenceforward  the 
abbots  of  Jedburgh  were  to  hold  a  place  of 
exceptional  dignity  in  the  kingdom.  Nicholas 
(1255)  was  a  member  of  the  Royal  Council  and 
one  of  the  excommunicators  of  the  traitorous 
guardians  of  the  youthful  Alexander  III. ;  later  he 
was  an  ambassador  of  the  same  king  to  Edward 
III.,  then  a  prisoner  of  the  Earl  of  Leicester. 
John  (1275)  was  Abbot  when  Alexander  married 
Yolande  de  Dreux  in  Jedburgh  Abbey,  chosen 
for  this  purpose  on  account  of  its  great  dignity 
and  the  exceptional  beauty  of  the  surrounding 
country;  later  he  also  was  an  ambassador  to 
England  anent  the  conflicting  claims  of  Bruce 
and  Baliol  to  the  Scottish  Crown  on  the  death 
without  issue  of  Alexander  III.  John  II. 
(1338)  was  one  of  those  who  arranged  the  treaty 
with  England  in  1342  for  the  settling  of  the 
Border  question.  Robert  III.,  his  successor, 
was  also  an  envoy  to  England,  as  were  Robert 
IV.  (1473)  and  Thomas  II.  (1494). 

[134] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

Under  James  V.  began  the  fatal  custom  of 
appointing  "commendatory  abbots"  —  a  vicious 
and  sacrilegious  practice  borrowed  from  the 
continent,  where  it  was  the  prime  cause  of  the 
degradation  of  monasticism  and  its  final  fall. 
"The  result  of  this  commende  was  to  bestow  this 
title  of  abbot,  with  the  greater  part  of  the  rev- 
enues of  a  monastery,  upon  ecclesiastics  who 
were  strangers  to  monastic  life,  and  too  often 
upon  simple  laymen,  provided  they  were  not 
married.  It  inflicted  thus  a  deep  and  radical 
taint  to  these  institutions.  .  .  .  For  the  partial 
irregularities  which,  especially  in  houses  not 
directly  subject  to  the  influence  of  the  great 
feudal  families,  had  followed  elections,  the  direct 
nominations  of  the  kings,  established  by  the 
Concordat  of  1516,  substituted  a  criminal, 
radical  and  incurable  disorder.  The  title  of 
abbot,  borne  and  distinguished  by  so  many 
saints,  so  many  doctors,  so  many  illustrious 
pontiffs,  fell  into  the  mire.  Neither  residence, 
nor  any  of  the  duties  of  the  religious  life  were 
any  longer  compulsory.  It  was  nothing  more 
than  a  lucrative  sinecure,  which  the  Crown  dis- 
posed of  at  its  pleasure,  or  at  the  pleasure  of  its 
ministers,  and  too  often  to  the  profit  of  the  most 
unworthy  passions  or  interests.  .  .  .  Let  us 
imagine  to  ourselves  what  could  become  in  most 

[135] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

of  these  monasteries,  despoiled  of  their  most 
essential  prerogatives,  of  the  true  motives  of 
their  existence,  and  metamorphosed  into  farms 
belonging  to  strangers,  of  some  five  or  six  un- 
happy monks,  abandoned  to  themselves  and 
overwhelmed  under  the  weight  of  their  past 
glory  and  their  present  debasement.  Can  we 
wonder  at  the  progress  of  corruption,  of  spiritual 
and  intellectual  decline?  .  .  .  Under  the  influ- 
ence of  all  these  united  causes,  the  monastic 
institution  hastened  more  and  more  to  complete 
decay.  ...  Is  it  needful  to  ascertain  further 
the  depth  of  their  fall  or  to  explain  the  true 
cause  of  their  ruin  ?  "* 

It  is  sometimes  urged  in  extenuation  of 
Henry's  course  in  England  that  monasticism 
there  had  become  a  foul  canker  in  the  body 
politic,  and  that  it  did  not  owe  an  untimely 
destruction  to  the  peculiar  personality  of  Henry 
himself,  since  in  France,  Italy,  Spain,  Germany, 
it  also  was  destroyed  and  under  other  sovereigns. 
In  this  ruinous  " commende"  however,  we  find 
the  true  cause  of  the  continental  suppressions, 
in  a  custom  evolved  by  absolutism  to  insure  its 
own  persistence  after  it  had  destroyed  the  very 
real  liberty  and  freedom  that  had  existed  under 
the  feudalism  and  limited  monarchies  of  the 

*Montalembert;  "The  Monks  of  the  West." 

[136] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

Middle  Ages.  The  commende  never  obtained 
in  England,  and  when  Henry  struck  at  monasti- 
cism,  the  blow  fell  on  an  institution  not  yet 
weakened  and  vitiated  by  any  such  cause  as  on 
the  continent  and  in  Scotland,  sapped  the  life 
out  of  it,  and  left  no  reason  for  its  continued 
existence  in  its  unhappy  and  degenerate  es- 
tate. 

John  Home,  brother  to  the  Great  Chamber- 
lain of  Scotland,  was  the  first  of  the  commenda- 
tory abbots  of  Jedburgh.  His  nature  may  be 
read  from  a  charter  under  the  Great  Seal  granted 
in  1549  to  John,  Alexander,  and  Matthew  Home, 
"bastardis  filiis  naturalibus  reverendi  in  Christo 
patris  Johannis  de  Jedburgh  abbatis,"  which 
charter  was  followed  by  another  of  similar  tenour 
in  1572.  Andrew  Home,  nephew  of  this  worthy 
successor  of  a  long  line  of  saintly  men,  was  the 
next  commendatory  and  the  last  of  those  who 
bore  the  title  of  Abbot  of  Jedburgh.  He  assumed 
the  title  in  1560.  "  Foreseeing  that  the  abolition 
of  his  abbey  was  imminent,  the  commendator, 
like  the  abbots  and  commendators  of  similar 
establishments,  made  over  the  lands,  etc.,  be- 
longing to  the  monastery  to  his  chief,  or 
rather  to  his  own  mother,  who  was  the  widow 
of  George,  fourth  Lord  Home,  and  on  the 
death  of  Lady  Home  he  made  a  new  grant  of 

[137] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

the  lands  of  the  abbey  in  favour  of  his  nephew 
Alexander."* 

Title  to  all  the  estates  of  the  once  glorious 
abbey  was  confirmed  in  1606;  when  Lord  Home 
became  an  earl  they  were  erected  into  a  barony 
called  of  Coldingham,  and  the  Augustinian  foun- 
dation of  St.  David,  the  mighty  abbey  of  Jed- 
burgh,  gave  place  to  "The  Earl  of  Home,  Baron 
of  Coldingham  and  Lord  of  Jedburgh  and 
Dunglas." 

Better  a  thousand  times  would  it  have  been 
had  Scottish  monasticism  vanished  in  blood 
and  fire  and  spoliation,  together  with  that  of 
England,  rather  than  it  should  have  continued 
as  it  did  for  another  fifty  years,  until  the  royal 
successors  of  the  sainted  sovereign  who  had 
brought  it  into  being  had  made  of  it  an  hateful 
thing  of  shreds  and  patches,  only  to  be  utterly 
wiped  out  in  scorn  and  contempt,  when  it  had  at 
last  been  done  to  death  by  profligate  commen- 
dators. 

Lying  as  it  did  in  the  track  of  every  army 
that  crossed  the  border  from  either  side,  Jed- 
burgh  was  sacked  and  burned  by  the  English 
again  and  again:  in  1297  by  Sir  Richard  Hast- 
ings, in  1464  by  the  Earl  of  Warwick,  in  1523 
by  the  Earl  of  Surrey,  and,  "last  stage  of  all," 

*  James  Watson:  "  Jedburgh  Abbey." 

[138] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

by  Lord  Eure  in  1544,  serving  under  the  Earl 
of  Hertford,  who  had  been  sent  by  his  royal 
master  to  kill,  burn,  and  destroy  in  revenge  for 
the  refusal  of  Cardinal  Beaton  to  sell  Scotland 
under  the  flimsy  guise  of  an  alliance  between 
Prince  Edward  and  Queen  Mary,  then  a  child 
of  a  year  or  two.  Hertford  truly  reported  that 
Jedburgh  had  been  "well  brent,"  and  that  they 
had  "put  to  the  fyre,  and  left  not  past  two 
houses  unbrent  in  the  same;  the  abbey  likewise 
they  burned  as  much  as  they  might  for  the 
stonework."  One  good  deed  is  recorded  for 
the  commendator  John  Home,  otherwise  of  evil 
memory;  he  restored  the  burned  abbey  to  such 
good  effect  that  eight  years  later,  in  1552,  when 
in  the  very  last  days  of  the  debauched  Church, 
David  Panter,  commendator  of  Cambuskenneth, 
was  "consecrated"  Bishop  of  Ross,  the  sacri- 
legious ceremony  took  place  within  its  walls 
"with  great  triumph  and  banquetting,"  which 
we  may  well  believe,  if  we  accept  Buchanan's 
statement  that  he  lived  as  if  he  had  been  trained 
in  the  school  of  profligacy,  not  of  piety.  Strange 
contrast  with  that  other  great  ceremony  in  Jed- 
burgh,  the  marriage  of  the  good  King  Alexander 
III.,  three  hundred  years  before.  Was  it  in 
prophecy  of  this  miserable  end  to  glory  and 
wide  beneficence  that  the  wedding  feast  ended 

[139] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

as  it  did  ?  Here  is  the  legend.  After  the  wed- 
ding, and  at  night,  in  the  great  hall  of  the  abbey, 
before  the  king  and  queen  and  half  the  nobility 
and  knighthood  of  the  land,  was  held  a  great 
pageant,  a  masque  of  religious  and  domestic 
virtues,  of  music  and  the  arts,  of  military  and 
knightly  valour.  Suddenly,  at  the  end  of  the 
long  procession  was  seen  a  grizzly  apparition: 

"  Namely,  a  mere  anatomy,  quite  bare 
His  naked  limbs,  both  without  flesh  and  hair, 
(As  we  decipher  Death)  who  stalks  about 
Keeping  true  measure  till  the  dance  be  out. 
The  King  with  all  the  rest  affrighted  stand: 
The  spectre  vanished,  and  then  strict  command 
Was  given  to  break  up  revels,  each  'gan  fear 
The  other,  and  presage  disaster  near."* 

From  St.  David  and  Alexander  III.  to 
James  V.  and  commendatory  John  Home, 
from  the  founding  of  abbeys  and  the  building 
of  triumphs  of  consummate  art  to  the  sale  and 
mortgage  and  final  burning  and  perfect  de- 
struction thereof,  cause  indeed  for  the  coming 
at  the  end  of  the  magical  masque  of  a  ghastly 
portent  "  as  we  decipher  Death." 

During  the  terrible  anarchy  that  followed  the 
death  of  James  V.  the  abbey,  now  taken  over 
for  parochial  purposes  by  the  Presbyterians, 

*  Heywood:  "Hierarchic  of  the  Blessed  Angels." 

[140] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

fell  steadily  into  decay.  Commendator  John 
Home's  reparations  could  have  been  none  too 
thorough,  for  twenty  years  after  we  learn  that 
the  great  church  "is  presentlie  consumit  and 
decayit  in  the  rufe  and  timmer  thairof  and 
within  short  process  of  tyme  will  all  uterlie  decay 
and  fall  doun  gif  tymous  remeid  be  not  prouidit 
thairto."  Wherefore  it  was  urged  that  certain 
of  the  conventual  buildings  be  torn  down  to 
furnish  "timmer,"  which  was  done.  Yet  there 
was  more  dead  in  Scotland  than  the  church 
roofs.  Little  by  little  those  fell  at  Jedburgh; 
columns  collapsed,  walls  were  thrown  down  to 
furnish  patchwork  materials.  The  parish  church 
shrunk  smaller  and  smaller.  Now  one  part  of 
the  venerable  ruin  was  roughly  closed  in  to  form 
a  kirk,  now  another.  Finally  five  bays  at  the 
west  of  the  nave  were  enough,  and  this  in  spite 
of  the  fact  that  one  aisle  was  excluded  from  the 
makeshift  walls;  the  great  roof  had  long  since 
gone,  and  now  another  was  introduced  at  the 
triforium  level,  above  which  towered  the  forlorn 
clerestory,  gaunt  and  toppling.  This  last  affair 
must  have  been  a  dismal  place  within;  all  the 
stone  was  covered  with  plaster,  the  windows 
filled  with  plain  sashes  of  common  glass  set  in 
wood  mutins,  deal  galleries  hung  on  the  walls, 
and  the  floor  area  was  divided  up  into  small 

[141] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

pens  five  and  a  half  feet  square.  "It  was 
arranged  that  four  of  the  seats  in  the  middle 
of  the  church  were  to  be  movable,  in  order  that 
at  the  time  of  the  sacrament  a  double  row  of 
tables  might  be  set,  one  along  these  seats,  and 
one  along  the  area  opposite  with  a  passage  for 
the  elders  along  one  side  of  each."  The  "  deco- 
ration" consisted  in  the  Commandments  and 
Creed  painted  on  the  plaster  at  the  east  end, 
and  a  painted  text  of  Scripture  over  each  column. 
The  history  of  this  time  is  as  forlorn  as  the 
new  kirk,  of  which  the  frequenters  were  prob- 
ably very  proud  during  the  eighteenth  century. 
It  is  a  long  chronicle  of  fights  over  the  owner- 
ship of  cloister,  refectory,  mills,  barns,  and  lands; 
of  lawsuits,  bickerings,  and  even  murders;  of 
heart  burnings  and  recriminations  as  to  who 
should  be  buried  where  and  whose  pew  should  be 
in  one  place,  when  another  claimed  the  right  as 
his  own.  The  Laird  of  Hunthill  submits  to  the 
presbytery  "ane  bill  compleaning  he  was  wronged 
in  his  seat  in  the  kirk  and  desyring  that  he  be  not 
wronged";  the  magistrates  and  heritors  find 
that  "the  Marquess  of  Douglass  and  his  tenants 
were  to  sit  betwixt  the  pillar  on  the  west  of 
the  pulpit  according  to  his  valuation,  and  the 
rest  of  that  place  for  Lanton  and  the  tenants 
there";  "Madder's  lands  having  been  found  to 

[142] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

extend  to  about  half  the  whole  valuation  of 
Lanton,  had  assigned  to  them  two  pews  immedi- 
ately behind  Sir  John  Rutherford's  seat,  each 
seat  extending  in  length  from  pillar  to  pillar, 
and  breadth  two  feet  two  inches,  a  free  entry 
to  be  through  this  locality  to  Sir  John  Ruther- 
ford's seat.  The  ground  immediately  behind 
Madder's  back  seat  was  given  to  Alexander 
Ferguson,  to  the  end  that  he  might  erect  a  half 
seat  there.  The  Duke  of  Buccleuch  was  to 
have  a  seat  extending  from  the  wall  on  the  east 
side  of  the  meikle  kirk  door  to  the  entry  that 
led  into  Cavers  Carr's  seat,  keeping  always 
within  the  general  locality  of  Lanton." 

But  enough  of  the  canny  but  pitifully  sordid 
squabbling  that  dragged  its  crass  way  through 
almost  three  centuries.  An  end  came,  so  far 
as  the  poor  old  abbey  was  concerned,  in  1875, 
when  the  Marquess  of  Lothian,  unable  to  endure 
further  the  degradation  of  a  great  and  reverend 
monument,  bribed  the  occupants  to  get  out,  by 
building  for  them  a  fine  new  kirk  "  in  the  Early 
English  style  of  Architecture."  Since  then  the 
house  of  Lothian  has  done  everything  possible 
to  redeem  the  trembling  ruins:  the  lath  and 
plaster  kirk  has  been  eradicated,  the  stones 
purged  of  their  whitewash,  fallen  stones  replaced 
in  position,  piers  strengthened,  walls  protected, 

[143] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

debris  removed,  and  here  and  there  low  walls 
added  to  give  a  clear  idea  of  the  former  lines 
of  the  great  church.  The  ruins  now  stand, 
dignified,  solemn,  self-respecting,  and  secure; 
the  real  "dark  ages"  for  Jedburgh  Abbey  have 
passed  away. 

Architecturally,  we  could  have  spared  many 
churches  before  Jedburgh,  and  it  is  a  notable 
mercy  that  so  much  has  been  preserved  from 
the  fell  hands  of  "heritors"  and  presbyteries, 
and  finally  that  the  precious  remains  should 
have  fallen  at  last  into  the  honourable  custody 
of  such  as  the  Marquesses  of  Lothian.  There 
are  many  minor  joys  as  well:  a  model  history  of 
the  abbey  by  James  Watson;  good  photographs 
to  be  had  for  small  prices;  last,  but  not  least, 
an  old  custodian  who  is  a  perennial  and  ever- 
new  delight.  Jedburgh  at  last  has  fallen  on 
gentle  days. 

As  the  ruins  now  stand,  they  show  admirably 
the  sequence  and  growth  of  style  in  the  North. 
The  first  church  of  St.  David's  time  consisted 
of  a  crossing  with  transepts,  a  choir  of  two  bays, 
terminated  by  a  semicircular  apse  and  possibly 
a  short  nave  of  two  or  three  bays,  as  at  Kelso. 
Later  by  about  a  century,  the  apse  was  removed 
and  the  choir  extended  by  three  bays,  with  a 
square  termination,  while  the  short  nave  gave 

[144] 


Jedburgh — The  Cloister  Door. 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

place  to  a  most  noble  structure  of  nine  bays, 
one  hundred  and  thirty  feet  in  length.  About 
a  century  later  still,  the  north  transept  was 
greatly  extended,  so  we  have  here  examples  of 
three  definite  periods,  the  twelfth,  thirteenth, 
and  fourteenth  centuries.  Of  the  rehabilita- 
tion that  came  after  the  burning  of  the  abbey 
by  Warwick,  nothing  exists  except,  perhaps,  the 
exquisite  tracery  of  the  south  chapel  window. 
The  early  Norman  work  is  powerful,  original, 
deeply  interesting;  far  more  French  in  its  con- 
notation than  the  contemporary  English  work. 
This  is  also  true  of  the  transitional  nave,  and 
as  a  matter  of  fact,  French  influence  is  every- 
where visible  in  Scottish  architecture  from  the 
earliest  times  to  the  end;  a  state  of  things  that 
one  would  quite  expect  to  find  in  view  of  the 
close  and  constant  connection  between  the  two 
kingdoms.  The  almost  complete  destruction  of 
the  thirteenth  century  sanctuary  is  deeply  to 
be  regretted,  the  portions  that  remain  being 
singularly  spontaneous,  poetic,  and  vital.  The 
nave  is  wholly  admirable,  a  powerful  arcade  of 
clustered  shafts  with  clean-cut,  vigorous  capitals 
and  fine,  strong  arches,  a  singularly  classical 
and  delicate  triforium  and  a  clerestory  still 
more  sensitive  and  glittering.  From  pavement 
to  roof  one  may  mark  the  transition  from  Nor- 

[145] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

man  to  the  full-blown  style  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  keeping  steady  pace  with  the  progress  of 
the  work.  The  square  abacus,  the  square  con- 
tours of  the  arch  arisses,  the  contours  of  the 
pier  sections,  all  testify  to  French,  not  English 
influence.  The  nave  was  never  vaulted,  nor 
was  this  ever  contemplated,  therefore  division 
into  bays  does  not  exist,  and  the  main  lines  of 
the  design  are  horizontal.  It  is  interesting  to 
note  in  the  west  end  an  almost  complete  return 
to  the  round  arch  and  the  characteristic  orna- 
ment of  a  century  before.  Some  have  supposed 
that  the  west  door  was  removed  to  its  new  po- 
sition from  the  ancient  church,  but  it  seems  to 
me  that  if  it  is  compared  with  the  unquestioned 
twelfth  century  monk's  door  to  the  cloisters,  it 
will  appear  as  once  as  a  copy,  not  an  original. 
It  is  lacking  in  the  vigour,  the  brilliancy  and  the 
power  of  the  latter  work,  and  is  undoubtedly 
therefore,  an  essay  in  imitation  by  masons  who 
had  outgrowTn  the  older  style  and,  while  acquir- 
ing something  far  finer,  had  been  unable  to 
think  back  into  the  terms  of  a  previous  age. 

Of  the  conventual  buildings,  nothing  is  known. 
One  may  indulge  in  conjecture,  no  more.  Refor- 
mation "squatters,"  respectable  robbers,  and 
careless  presbyteries  have  destroyed  the  last 
trace  of  the  great  group  of  buildings  that  once 

[146] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

dropped  in  terraces  down  to  the  lovely  river. 
Everything  is  gone,  except  here  and  there  a 
foundation  stone.  The  great  cloister  is  now 
a  beautiful  garden,  but  the  site  of  chapter  house, 
refectory,  fratry,  and  abbot's  lodgings  is  blocked 
by  hideous  houses  of  the  last  century,  or  swept 
clean  to  the  turf  itself. 

Kelso,  once  the  richest  and  most  powerful 
of  all  the  monastic  houses  in  Scotland,  has 
suffered  more  grievously  than  Jedburgh.  Wholly 
destroyed  by  Henry's  scourge,  the  Earl  of  Hert- 
ford, the  ruins  were  turned  into  a  barracks, 
then  divided  between  a  prison  and  a  covenanter 
meeting  house,  and  finally,  so  far  as  the  great 
choir  is  concerned,  razed  to  the  ground  and 
given  over  to  secular  purposes,  while,  following 
the  fashion  of  the  time,  the  local  gentry  quar- 
relled for  privilege  of  sepulture  and  the  raising  of 
cheerful  headstones  within  the  dismantled  walls 
and  the  confines  of  the  close.  No  Marquess  of 
Lothian  has  come  to  guard  the  wreck  with  jeal- 
ous care,  no  historian  to  organize  the  annals  of  a 
house,  the  abbot  of  which  once  claimed  priority 
before  the  Bishop  of  St.  Andrews  himself:  the 
gaunt  walls  are  jostled  by  crowding  houses, 
paved  streets  cut  through  close  and  graveyard, 
and  a  most  unhandsome  village  has  circled  the 
august  wreck  with  prison  walls. 

[147] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

Fortunately,  the  most  important  part  of  the 
abbey,  speaking  architecturally,  the  nave,  cross- 
ing, and  transepts,  still  remains,  with  two  walls 
of  the  central  tower.  This  is  most  fortunate, 
for  so  we  can  gain  a  good  idea  of  a  very  unusual 
type  of  design,  the  castellated  church  of  the 
Border  as  it  was  in  the  twelfth  century.  Kelso 
is  unique  and  priceless.  Apart  from  the  ex- 
traordinary naveless  type,  the  design  is  consum- 
mately interesting,  for  it  is  of  a  powerful  and 
majestic  late  Norman,  vigorous  and  masterly. 
Nave  and  transepts  were  about  of  the  same 
length;  the  huge  tower  rose  from  their  intersec- 
tion, and  therefore  tells  for  its  full  value,  while 
the  great  masses  of  the  three  projections  buttress 
it  perfectly  and  build  up  into  a  great  and  awe- 
inspiring  mass.  It  is  Roman  in  its  grave  and 
self-restrained  majesty,  a  masterpiece  of  splendid 
and  competent  design.  Within  it  is  almost 
startlingly  rich  and  supple  for  the  period.  All 
the  arcade  and  wall  arches  are  round,  those  of 
the  crossing  slightly  pointed.  The  walls  to  the 
west  are  piled  up  of  range  over  range  of  arched 
motives,  those  of  the  choir  consist  in  great  low 
arches  on  powerful  piers,  surmounted  by  a  kind 
of  triforium  gallery  of  delicate  shafts  supporting 
an  unbroken  sequence  of  semicircular  arches 
with,  for  clerestory,  a  modification  of  the  same 

[148] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

scheme.  There  is  something  almost  of  the 
South  in  this  fragment  of  choir,  something  of 
North  France  in  the  transepts,  something  even 
of  the  legendary  Saxon  in  the  much  bepraised 
north  portal;  altogether  a  supremely  interesting 
building,  well  deserving  of  a  happier  fate. 

Kelso  was  founded  by  St.  David  in  1128,  who 
then  established  there  a  house  of  Tironensian 
monks,  an  offshoot  of  the  Cistercian  order  most 
unfamiliar  in  Great  Britain.  It  was  primarily 
almost  a  labouring  order.  Hard  work  and 
plenty  of  it  was  the  founder's  safeguard  against 
temptation.  Every  monk  was  a  workman,  a 
labourer.  Some  were  husbandmen,  some  car- 
penters, some  stone-cutters  and  masons,  while 
others,  who  were  not  fitted  for  such  arduous 
tasks,  were  diligent  illuminators.  The  fame  of 
Kelso,  in  this  last  direction,  spread  over  the 
entire  kingdom.  Through  the  enormous  indus- 
try of  these  monks  and  the  universal  respect 
they  inspired,  whereby  they  benefited  by  a  long 
series  of  bequests,  Kelso  became  possessed  of 
vast  estates  reaching  down  into  Northumberland, 
and  north  as  far  as  Aberdeen.  At  the  very  end, 
after  the  English  had  destroyed  the  abbey,  and 
the  monks,  dispossessed,  had  been  driven  forth 
to  subsist  on  the  charity  of  other  houses,  the  rev- 
enues of  the  lands  alone,  perhaps  half  of  which 

[149] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

had  already  been  alienated,  were  estimated  at 
nearly  four  thousand  pounds  Scots,  or  over 
twenty-two  thousand  dollars  of  our  own  time. 

The  siege  and  reduction  of  Kelso  Abbey  by 
the  Earl  of  Hertford  in  1545  is  one  of  the  fine, 
fierce  tales  of  the  Border.  Churchmen  and 
townspeople  held  the  close  for  a  long  time  against 
the  bombardment  of  Hertford's  artillery  and  the 
repeated  assaults  of  his  infantry.  Breached  by 
cannon,  the  close  became  untenable,  and  for  a 
while  the  defenders  fought  off  one  attack  after 
another,  retreating  through  the  conventual  build- 
ings until  they  made  their  last  stand  in  the  church 
itself.  Once  more  the  artillery,  now  at  close 
range,  made  a  breach  in  the  sacred  walls,  but 
none  came  forward  to  the  final  assault,  until 
Hertford  offered  a  reward  to  any  who  would 
volunteer.  At  last  a  band  of  Spanish  merce- 
naries yielded  to  the  bribe,  scaled  the  walls,  ob- 
tained a  lodgment,  drove  back  the  handful  of 
defenders,  and  cleared  a  way  for  the  more  cau- 
tious English,  who  now  poured  into  the  dese- 
crated sanctuary  and  put  all  to  the  sword,  except 
two  or  three  monks,  who  retreated  to  the  top- 
most platform  of  the  tower,  which  they  held  all 
night,  killing  every  man  who  ventured  up  the 
winding  stone  stairway.  It  is  one  of  the  joys 
of  history  to  know  that,  in  some  way  or  other, 

[150] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

this  handful  of  doughty  monks  and  splendid 
patriots  managed  to  escape  at  dawn  and  make 
their  way  to  safety  in  the  North. 

This  was  of  course  the  end  of  the  abbey.  For 
a  time  it  served  as  a  barracks,  a  part  of  the 
covenanting  army  being  quartered  there  after 
it  had  treacherously  sold  its  king  to  the  Parlia- 
mentary forces  of  England  in  1647.  In  1699 
a  portion  of  the  ruin  was  enclosed,  as  at  Jed- 
burgh  and  for  the  same  purpose,  except  that 
the  ramshackle  structure  continued  "a  double 
debt  to  pay,"  the  loft  being  used  as  a  common 
prison.  In  1760  a  part  of  the  aisle  vault  fell 
during  a  service  in  the  kirk,  which  so  frightened 
the  people,  who  bore  in  mind  an  old  prophecy 
of  Thomas  the  Rhymer,  that  they  abandoned 
the  place  forthwith  and  erected  for  themselves 
a  fine  new  kirk,  more  consonant  with  the  en- 
lightened times  in  which  they  lived,  later  pro- 
nounced by  one  carping  critic  to  be  "without 
exception  the  ugliest  and  least  suitable  in  its 
architecture  of  all  the  parish  churches  in  Scot- 
land —  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal  —  but 
it  is  an  excellent  model  for  a  circus."  Last  of 
all,  the  abbot  and  monks  were  succeeded  by  a 
firm  of  manufacturers  of  threshing  machines, 
who  were  ousted  in  1805  and  the  place  purged 
of  its  many  miserable  accretions.  In  the  mean- 

[151] 


JEDBURGH  AND  KELSO 

time  every  trace  of  conventual  buildings  had 
disappeared,  the  materials  going  to  the  erection 
of  the  town  hall  and  other  public  and  private 
works;  the  great  gardens  and  orchards  of  the 
abbey  had  become  the  paved  and  desolate 
market  place  that  now  rejoices  the  eye  —  the 
market  place  where  in  "the  Fifteen"  James  III. 
and  VIII.  was  proclaimed  King  of  Great  Britain, 
Ireland,  and  France.  The  "Dark  Ages"  were 
at  an  end,  and  bell  and  prayers  and  chanting, 
learning,  industry,  and  mercy  had  yielded  place 
to  kirk,  prison,  and  wheelwright,  and  to  that 
foul  emanation  of  the  eighteenth  century,  the 
"Holy  Matin  Club"  of  infamous  memory. 
The  Renaissance  and  Reformation  had  con- 
quered medisevalism  at  last. 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

OF  the  Cistercian  houses  in  the  south  we 
have  already  seen  something  inBeaulieu, 
Netley,  and  Tintern;  but  the  chief  of  all 
was  far  to  the  north  in  that  cradle  of  monas- 
ticism,  Yorkshire,  surrounded  by  a  cluster  of 
the  noblest  examples  of  architecture  England 
could  boast.  Rievaulx,  Byland,  Fountains,  Jer- 
vaulx,  Kirkstall,  Roche,  what  an  epic  of  monastic 
grandeur  the  names  evolve.  Meaux  and  Sawley, 
two  other  Cistercian  foundations,  are  almost  for- 
gotten, whilst  all  trace  of  them  has  been  practi- 
cally obliterated;  yet  we  do  not  need  them,  for 
the  sextet  of  greater  houses  is  sufficient  in  itself. 
Each  was  as  different  to  the  other  as  a  Cistercian 
church  could  be,  and  each  marked  some  noble 
stage  in  the  development  of  Gothic  in  England. 
It  was  in  the  reign  of  Henry  I.  and  in  the 
year  1131  that  Rievaulx,  premier  abbey  of  all 
the  Cistercian  foundations,  was  established  by 
Walter  1'Espec,  a  noble  Norman,  and  a  great 
soldier.  Aelred,  abbot  of  Rievaulx  and  third 
in  the  line  of  thirty-three  incumbents,  writes  of 

[153] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

him  as  "an  old  man  and  full  of  days,  quick- 
witted, prudent  in  council,  moderate  in  peace, 
circumspect  in  war,  a  true  friend  and  a  loyal 
subject.  His  stature  was  passing  tall,  .  .  .  his 
hair  was  still  black,  his  beard  long  and  flowing, 
his  forehead  wide  and  noble,  his  eyes  large  and 
bright,  his  face  broad,  but  well  featured,  his 
voice  like  the  sound  of  a  trumpet,  setting  off  his 
natural  eloquence  of  speech  with  a  certain  maj- 
esty of  sound."  A  fine  pen-portrait  of  a  most 
commanding  personality.  As  is  quaintly  re- 
corded by  Dugdale:  "The  aforesaid  Walter 
1'Espec  had  a  Son,  call'd  also  Walter,  who 
having  unfortunately  broken  his  Neck,  by  a  Fall 
from  his  Horse,  his  Father  resolv'd  to  make 
Christ  Heir  of  Part  of  his  Lands,  and  accordingly 
founded  three  Monasteries."  Rievaulx  was  the 
third  of  these  communities  that  owed  their  exist- 
ence to  the  piety  and  grief  of  a  sorrowful  old 
man;  and  its  establishment,  at  the  suggestion  of 
the  great  Archbishop  Turstan,  of  York,  was 
placed  in  the  hands  of  certain  monks  sent  over 
from  Clairvaux  by  St.  Bernard  himself. 

Naturally  the  fact  that  the  first  monks  of 
Rievaulx  were  personal  friends  of  the  great 
saint  gave  the  house  a  singular  distinction, 
which  it  retained  until  the  end.  Chief  of  all 
the  Cistercians  in  England  the  Abbot  of  Rie- 

[154] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

vaulx  not  only  supervised  the  whole  order  in 
the  islands,  but  he  was  as  well  constantly  called 
to  act  as  arbitrator  in  ecclesiastical,  monastic, 
and  civil  disputes.  As  was  always  the  case,  the 
abbey  was  under  the  constant  patronage  of  the 
neighbouring  nobility,  and  many  of  them  were 
buried  within  its  walls.  First  of  these  was  the 
venerable  founder,  who,  "an  old  man  and  full 
of  days,"  finally  took  the  cowl,  spending  the 
last  few  years  of  his  noble  and  strenuous  life  as 
a  monk  in  the  peace  and  rest  of  the  cloister  he 
had  built,  and,  dying  on  March  9,  1153,  was 
buried  at  the  door  of  the  chapter  house,  where 
he  still  sleeps  beneath  a  mound  of  grass-grown 
ruins  hurled  down  in  futile  fury  by  the  destroyers 
of  that  which  manly  piety  had  wrought. 

Very  far  away  from  any  line  of  ordinary 
travel,  hidden  in  a  deep  glen  of  the  Yorkshire 
moors,  forgotten  of  all  but  archaeologists  and 
architectural  pilgrims,  Rievaulx  still  remains  the 
most  typical  and  perfect  ruin  of  monastic  Eng- 
land. One  leaves  the  train  at  the  little  market 
town  of  Helmsley,  where  the  red  crags  of  Helms- 
ley  castle  lift  above  great  elms  blotted  by  busy 
rookeries.  The  castle  itself  is  full  of  historical 
interest,  for  "Helmsley,  once  proud  Bucking- 
ham's delight,"  had  fallen  finally  into  the  hands 
of  that  engaging  knave  who  served  his  king  so 

[155] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

well  and  yet  so  ill,  dying  at  last  by  the  dagger 
of  Felton  in  1628.  Sixteen  years  later  Colonel 
Crossland,  a  fine,  brave  type  of  Cavalier,  held 
it  against  great  odds,  while  Fairfax  battered  it 
from  every  side,  finally  reducing  it  to  ruin  and 
compelling  the  surrender  of  the  little  garrison  of 
two  hundred  men. 

The  road  thence  to  Rievaulx  climbs  up  and 
up  some  three  or  four  miles  over  the  swelling 
moors,  and  at  last  on  the  height  of  land  a 
breakneck  path  drops  down  into  thick  forest. 
Winding  back  and  forth,  it  leads  deep  down 
through  a  cleft  in  the  hills;  a  squalid  village 
brings  it  to  an  end,  and,  of  a  sudden,  to  the  left 
lift  the  splendid  ruins,  held  close  in  the  vise  of 
parallel  lines  of  terraced  hills  that  fall  away  to 
the  east,  where  the  Rye  valley  opens  out  into  a 
wide  meadow,  basking  in  the  sun. 

A  lovelier  and  more  sheltered  haven  one  could 
not  find:  the  great  hills  shut  off  all  ungentle 
winds,  and  the  valley  lies  like  an  eddy  of  still 
water  in  the  turbulent  course  of  some  mountain 
torrent.  As  one  stands  within  the  glorious 
choir,  the  sky  is  hardly  visible  through  any  arch 
or  window,  only  a  curtain  of  living  green  turf 
and  luxuriant  trees:  the  whole  place  is  the 
apotheosis  of  earthly  and  spiritual  calm. 

I  have  called  Rievaulx  a  perfect  ruin;  and  so 
[156] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

it  is,  for  since  the  day  when  the  destroyers  drew 
away  from  the  deadly  wreck  their  hands  had 
wrought,  the  dead  past  has  been  left  to  bury  its 
dead.  Daily  one  stone  after  another  has  loos- 
ened and  dropped  to  earth,  the  merciful  ivy  has 
crept  higher  and  higher  in  vain  effort  to  stay  the 
slow  dissolution,  trees  have  sprung  up,  waxed 
great,  perished,  and  given  place  to  their  succes- 
sors. Early  in  the  last  century  the  choir  and 
transepts  were  cleared  down  to  the  pavement 
level,  but  this  is  the  only  evidence  of  man's  care 
in  the  space  of  two  and  a  half  centuries,  during 
which  the  bells  of  Rievaulx  have  been  silent  in 
the  valley  of  the  Rye. 

Of  the  once  great  church  nothing  now  remains 
but  the  interior  arcades  and  walls  of  the  choir 
(the  aisle  walls  have  wholly  vanished)  and  the 
transepts:  the  nave  is  nothing  but  a  mountain 
range  of  debris,  green  with  grass  and  great  trees. 
The  walls  of  the  refectory  still  stand,  as  do  some 
of  those  of  the  dormitory,  though  these  latter 
are  falling  daily;  beyond  lies  a  dark  and  won- 
derful court  choked  with  fallen  masonry  and 
thick  with  trees:  this  was  the  quadrangle  of  the 
abbot's  lodgings;  and  the  last  remains  of  this 
great  building  still  stand  in  part  as  they  were 
left  after  the  destruction  of  the  house  at  the 
time  of  the  Great  Rebellion,  for  it  is  evident 

[157] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

that,  as  so  often  happened,  this  portion  of  the 
house  was  transmuted  into  a  secular  dwelling 
and  served  as  such  for  the  century  between  the 
Suppression  and  the  Civil  Wars. 

If  Whitby  is  a  gnawing  temptation  to  the 
archaeologist  and  architect  as  a  field  for  research, 
Rievaulx  is  ten  times  greater  in  the  same  direc- 
tion. Beneath  these  huge  green  mounds  lie  the 
solutions  of  many  problems,  the  possibility  of 
much  artistic  treasure-trove.  The  utter  wilder- 
ness of  the  monastic  buildings  is  so  weirdly 
beautiful  that  he  would  be  a  brave  man  who 
would  lay  hands  thereon ;  but  this  is  not  true  of 
the  nave  of  the  church,  which  is  piled  twenty  feet 
high  with  grass-grown  wreck.  Here  one  hungers 
to  dig  and  clear  away,  tracing  the  lines  of  walls 
and  arcades,  opening  up  a  level  view  from  west 
to  east,  sweeping  away  the  pig  styes  and  hen 
roosts  that  cumber  the  walls,  and  laying  bare 
once  more  the  form  of  the  great  church  in  all  its 
integrity. 

It  is  an  open  secret  that  some  years  ago  the 
papers  were  all  prepared,  restoring  after  three 
and  a  half  centuries,  the  venerable  and  sacred 
ruins  to  monastic  hands.  The  papers  were 
never  signed,  but  they  still  may  be,  and  some 
day  Rievaulx  may  fall  again  into  the  keeping 
of  religious,  who  have  at  last  become  a  part  of 

[158] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

the  revivified  Anglican  Church;  then  will  be  the 
time  for  further  investigation  and  rehabilitation : 
the  glorious  choir  may  be  again  roofed  in,  closed 
by  new  aisle  walls,  consecrated  once  more  to 
the  service  of  God,  and  again  may  the  bells  of 
Rievaulx  be  heard  among  the  waiting  hills  and 
over  the  patient  fields.  "A  consummation  de- 
voutly to  be  wished"  indeed;  and,  if  accom- 
plished, perhaps  only  the  first  of  a  sequence  of 
acts  of  restitution  that,  even  if  they  rob  the 
tourist  of  certain  beautiful  goals,  will  do  some- 
thing toward  wiping  out  a  terrible  stain  and 
building  up  on  earth  new  "cities  of  God." 

The  architectural  glory  of  Rievaulx  lies  in  its 
wonderful  choir,  which,  but  for  its  vaulting  and 
its  aisle  walls,  has  been  mercifully  preserved 
intact.  Originally  three  hundred  and  forty- 
three  feet  long,  the  church  has,  as  I  have  said, 
been  reduced  to  choir  and  transepts,  the  entire 
nave  having  fallen  into  mountainous  ruin.  The 
lower  portions  of  the  transepts  are  Norman  in 
date,  and  probably  belong  to  Sir  Walter's  first 
church,  as  did  as  well  (though  of  this  we  cannot 
be  sure  as  yet)  the  vanished  nave.  The  original 
"eastern"  termination  was  unquestionably  of 
the  established  Cistercian  type,  aisleless,  short, 
and  flanked  by  transept  chapels.  About  1230 
the  Puritanical  rigidity  of  St.  Bernard's  archi- 

[159] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

tectural  principles  having  been  relaxed,  and  the 
rival  Byland  only  a  few  miles  away  having  dared 
to  erect  a  true  Benedictine  choir  with  aisles  and 
eastern  "processional  path,"  Rievaulx,  not  to 
be  outdone  in  splendour  by  a  junior  house,  de- 
termined to  build  a  greater  choir  still,  which 
was  done  forthwith,  and  the  work  was  finished, 
so  Sharpe  says,  and  none  could  know  better 
than  he,  not  later  than  1240.  Byland  was  out- 
done, and  almost  all  the  other  monasteries  of 
England  as  well,  for  Rievaulx  choir  is  one  of 
the  very  noblest  examples  of  English  Gothic 
existing  to-day.  It  is  one  hundred  and  forty- 
four  feet  long,  and  thirty  feet  wide  from  wall  to 
wall;  to  the  crown  of  the  vault  the  height  was 
sixty-four  feet.  In  every  way  it  is  organic,  mas- 
terly, even  sublime.  Purely  English,  it  contains 
no  trace  of  French  influence  whatever  and  marks 
our  own  thirteenth  century  Gothic  at  the  highest 
point  of  its  development.  Throughout  it  is 
supple,  varied,  competent;  no  halting,  no  doubt- 
fulness, no  hesitation;  the  sure  and  confident 
work  of  great  men  who  built  as  they  lived,  serene, 
manly,  self-reliant. 

Calm  on  the  highest  crest  of  a  triumphant 
civilization,  the  abbot  watched  the  guilds  of 
masons  as,  with  the  unfailing  instinct  of  the  bee, 
they  wrought  impeccably, 

[160] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

"  For  out  of  thought's  interior  sphere 
These  wonders  rose  to  upper  air; 
And  Nature  kindly  gave  them  place, 
Adopted  them  into  her  race 
And  granted  them  an  equal  date 
With  Andes  and  with  Ararat." 

Day  by  day,  without  pause  or  questioning,  "The 
conscious  stone  to  beauty  grew,"  until  the  noblest 
work  of  man  stood  ready  for  consecration;  and 
from  all  over  the  land  came  bishops,  abbots, 
monks  —  yes,  even  the  Legate  himself  —  to  join 
in  the  final  hallowing  of  that  which  was  already 
sacred  through  the  "love  and  terror"  that  had 
done  honour  to  God  and  added  another  lustre 
to  human  history.  Three  centuries  passed,  and 
again  men  gathered  for  a  high  visitation,  but 
this  time  with  letters  of  confiscation,  not  with 
litanies  and  psalms;  with  picks  and  torches  and 
gunpowder  in  place  of  crozier,  candles,  and  in- 
cense, with  curses  instead  of  benisons.  The 
last  mass  was  said,  the  last  bell  pealed  over  hill 
and  moor,  the  last  prayer  rose  from  the  lips  of 
men,  and,  exiled,  dispossessed,  blotted  with  the 
indelible  stain  of  infamous  pensioning,  abbot 
and  monk  filed  out  of  the  consecrated  enclosure, 
abandoning  it  forever  to  the  tender  mercies  of 
the  vindictive  and  the  covetous,  and  the  haunt- 
ing bats  by  night  and  flapping  rooks  by  day. 

[161] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

It  is  while  in  a  presence  like  this  of  Rievaulx 
choir  that  one  remembers,  half  with  pitying  con- 
tempt, half  with  a  kind  of  whimsical  glee,  the 
dictum  that  once  appeared  in  The  Spectator, 
many  years  ago:  "Let  anyone  reflect  on  the 
disposition  of  mind  he  finds  in  himself  at  his 
first  entrance  into  the  Pantheon  at  Rome  and 
how  the  imagination  is  filled  with  something 
great  and  amazing;  and  at  the  same  time  con- 
sider how  little,  in  proportion,  he  is  affected  with 
the  inside  of  a  Gothic  cathedral,  though  it  be 
five  times  larger  than  the  other;  which  can  arise 
from  nothing  else  but  the  greatness  of  the  man- 
ner in  the  one,  and  the  meanness  in  the  other." 
Oh,  the  poor  and  pitiful  little  eighteenth  century, 
so  purblind,  so  self -sufficing;  it  has  passed  as  a 
dream,  in  laughter  and  without  regret. 

Sixteen  years  after  the  founding  of  Rievaulx 
by  the  hardy  old  warrior,  Walter  1'Espec,  another 
Cistercian  house  was  established  only  a  few  miles 
away  in  a  wide  valley  beneath  the  Hambleton 
hills  by  a  second  sturdy  fighter  in  posse,  Roger 
de  Mowbray.  The  beginnings  of  Byland  are 
touching  in  their  austerity  and  their  manifold 
hardships,  and  are  as  well  indicative  of  the 
general  upheaval  of  the  time  when  a  great 
spiritual  and  moral  convulsion  was  shaking 
England  and  bringing  to  light  the  underlying 

[162] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

force  and  righteousness  that,  operative  at  last 
under  the  control  of  great  Churchmen,  were  to 
crush  royal  tyranny,  create  Magna  Carta,  and 
fix  the  strong  type  of  English  character  for 
generations. 

The  revolt  signalized  and  made  triumphant 
by  St.  Bernard  on  the  continent  was  in  Eng- 
land coincident  rather  than  sequent;  indeed,  the 
learned  Marquis  of  Ripon,  the  tender  guardian 
of  the  ruins  of  Fountains  Abbey,  most  beautiful 
of  all  Cistercian  monuments,  says:  "It  would 
seem  that  the  small  band  who  dissented  from 
what  they  thought  the  laxity  of  the  Benedictine 
Rule,  as  observed  at  St.  Mary's  at  York,  were 
spontaneously  actuated  in  the  same  direction  as 
St.  Bernard,  and  that  it  was  not  until  some  time 
after  they  had  seceded  from  the  abbey  at  York, 
and  obtained  a  foothold  on  the  banks  of  the 
Skell,  that  they  sought  the  council  of  that  great 
light  and  adopted  willingly  the  ascetic  rules  then 
imposed  upon  them."  If  this  is  so,  and  the 
dates  indicate  its  truth,  then  it  is  probable  also 
that,  when  the  superior  and  his  twelve  brothers 
seceded  from  Furness  in  1134,  they  went,  not  at 
the  instigation,  or  in  emulation,  of  St.  Bernard, 
but  because  revolt  and  regeneration  were  in  the 
air;  the  acceptance  of  the  Cistercian  Rule  would, 
therefore,  be  at  the  hands  of  Archbishop  Turstan 

[163] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

of   York,    to   whom   the   thirteen    applied   for 
guidance  in  their  difficulties. 

In  any  case,  the  secession  took  place  in  1134, 
only  three  years  after  the  founding  of  the  first 
Cistercian  community  at  Rievaulx.  The  pro- 
testants  against  monastic  laxity  fled  first  to 
G  alder,  chose  one  Gerald  as  their  abbot,  and 
were  about  to  begin  the  erection  of  a  monastery 
when  an  incursion  of  the  Scots  drove  them  forth 
into  the  wilderness  again.  Back  to  Furness  they 
went,  but  the  doors  were  shut  against  them,  and 
wearily  they  turned  around  to  seek  the  council 
of  Archbishop  Turstan,  who  already  had  done 
so  much  to  establish  both  Rievaulx  and  Foun- 
tains, and  who  they  knew  would  sympathize 
with  their  righteous  motives.  And  so  in  the 
year  1138,  appeared  in  the  streets  of  Thresk,  or 
Thirsk,  as  it  is  now  written,  a  pitiful  procession 
of  thirteen  footsore  pilgrims  accompanied  by  an 
ox-wain  laden  with  books,  sacred  vessels,  and 
a  few  shreds  of  clothing.  The  seneschal  of  the 
castle  of  Thresk,  taking  pity  on  the  travellers, 
gave  them  entertainment  and  then  told  the  Lady 
Gundreda,  mother  of  Roger  de  Mowbray,  then 
a  minor,  what  he  had  done.  "And  when  the 
said  lady,  in  a  certain  upper  chamber,  had 
peeped  secretly  through  a  certain  window  and 
seen  their  poverty,  for  very  piety  and  pity  she 

[164] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

melted  into  tears."  Gerald  and  his  monks  were 
commanded  to  remain  under  the  protection  of 
the  lady  Gundreda,  and  at  first  for  their  main- 
tenance they  received  a  tithe  of  all  things  that 
came  to  the  castle  larder.  This  charitable  plan 
worked  ill,  so  the  young  Roger  gave  the  pilgrim 
monks  his  own  cow  pasture  at  Cambe,  while  his 
mother  from  her  own  dower  granted  them  the 
vill  of  Byland  on  the  Moor,  or  Old  Byland. 
This  gave  them  about  seven  hundred  acres,  but 
there  was  little  space  for  proper  conventual 
buildings,  and  besides  the  site  was  quite  too 
near  Rievaulx,  just  across  the  river  Rye  in 
point  of  fact:  "The  two  houses  were  too  near 
each  other  to  allow  of  it,  for  at  every  hour  of 
the  day  and  night  the  one  convent  could  hear 
the  bells  of  the  other;  and  this  was  unseemly, 
and  could  not  in  any  way  long  be  borne,"  so  in 
1147  Roger  gave  them  two  carucates  of  land 
under  the  hill  of  Blackhow,  where  a  new  stone 
church  and  monastery,  small  but  seemly,  were 
erected  and  used  for  upwards  of  thirty  years, 
Old  Byland  still  being  retained  for  a  time  as  a 
cell  or  priory  under  the  abbot  at  Stocking,  as 
the  new  place  was  called.  It  was  from  Old 
Byland  that  the  monks  went  forth  to  found 
Jervaulx,  when,  in  all  probability,  Rievaulx  was 
left  in  sole  occupation  of  the  valley  of  the  Rye. 

[165] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

At  last,  in  1177,  the  peregrinations  of  Gerald's 
monks  came  to  an  end:  the  last  removal  was 
made  to  the  place  where  now  stand  the  splintered 
fragments  of  a  vast  and  glorious  church ;  success, 
wealth,  favour  had  come  to  the  pilgrims ;  a  great 
monastery  was  erected,  and  for  three  hundred 
and  fifty  years  Byland  continued  to  grow  in 
power  and  in  beauty ;  here,  in  the  splendid  church 
that  had  arisen  on  the  land  he  had  granted  and 
as  a  result  of  his  own  and  his  mother's  mercy, 
old  Roger  de  Mowbray,  now  a  famous  Crusader, 
after  all  his  fighting  and  his  two  journeys  to 
Jerusalem,  took  the  cowl  as  an  humble  Cister- 
cian monk,  and,  "after  life's  fitful  fever,"  lay 
down  to  die  in  sanctity,  being  buried  next  his 
mother  under  a  great  stone  whereon  was  carven 
a  long  Crusader's  sword.  Here  he  slept  in  peace 
through  the  glory  and  the  shame  that  fell  on 
Byland  until  the  year  1819  when,  his  bones 
being  discovered,  they  were  conveyed,  with  nota- 
ble piety,  by  one  Martin  Stapylton  to  the  church 
at  Myton,  where  now  they  rest. 

Of  the  once  magnificent  monastery  little  now 
remains:  almost  every  trace  of  the  conventual 
buildings  is  gone  and  of  the  church  itself  the 
fragments  still  standing  give  little  idea  of  its 
original  design;  the  west  front,  half-way  up  the 
round  of  the  rose-window,  is  still  extant,  while 

[166] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

some  of  the  aisle  walls  mantled  with  deep  ivy 
remain,  but  every  trace  of  arcade,  triforium  and 
clerestory  is  gone;  it  is  a  shattered  shell,  no  more. 
Yet  Byland  was  a  thing  we  can  ill  spare:  one 
complete  and  consistent  design  unmodified  by 
later  changes,  it  was  an  example  of  the  earliest 
Gothic  in  England,  a  work  mingled  in  Norman 
and  true  Gothic  motives,  round  and  pointed 
arches  being  used  indifferently,  together  with 
broad  flat  piers  or  pilasters  and  jutting  but- 
tresses. Bound  to  report  in  France  at  the  Gen- 
eral Chapter  on  Holy  Cross  day  in  every  year, 
the  Cistercian  abbots  always  brought  back  some 
new  idea  worth  working  out  in  the  great  devel- 
opment of  the  national  Gothic  style,  for  the 
growth  of  which  they  were  so  largely  respon- 
sible; and  here  at  Byland  were  many  proofs  of 
this  continental  influence,  among  them  being 
the  great  rose  window.  It  must  be  noted,  how- 
ever, that  in  no  case  was  there  absolute  copying. 
Every  hint  was  a  hint  only:  in  its  development 
it  became  thoroughly  English,  and  neither  here 
nor  elsewhere  can  we  find  a  peg  whereon  to 
hang  the  current  charge  that  English  Gothic 
was  at  best  no  more  than  a  barbarous  imitation 
of  the  pure  style  as  it  was  in  France.  Ideas 
were  accepted  wherever  found,  whether  in 
France  or  in  the  Holy  Land ;  but  each  was  com- 

[167] 


IEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

pletely  assimilated,  and  when  it  acquired  ex- 
pression in  masonry,  it  was  an  English  thing, 
consistent,  national,  individual. 

Byland  was,  again,  the  first  example  in  Eng- 
land of  the  Cistercian  abandonment  of  the  orig- 
inal ascetic  plan.  Here  the  aisleless  choir  gave 
place  to  the  magnificent  full-aisled  church,  the 
vaulted  passage-way  continuing  down  both  sides 
of  the  choir  and  around  the  eastern  end.  When 
Byland  was  built,  the  architectural  expression 
of  Cistercianism  had  ceased  to  retain  its  original 
character  so  far  as  plan  was  concerned,  though 
the  pristine  severity  of  detail  and  simplicity  of 
parts  remained.  Henceforward  the  Cistercians 
were  to  be  at  one  with  the  Benedictines  in  their 
grateful  labour  of  developing  Gothic  as  a  logical 
style  indivisible  for  all  England. 

The  peculiar  austerity  and  beneficence  of 
this  great  order  lasted  less  than  two  centuries. 
By  the  beginning  of  the  fourteenth  century  it 
had  grievously  fallen  away  from  the  ideals  of 
its  saintly  founders  and  those  of  its  greatest 
exponent.  At  the  time  of  the  Suppression  it 
furnished  few  martyrs  to  Henry's  greed  as  com- 
pared with  the  Benedictines,  who  had  taken 
on  a  new  lease  of  life.  Only  too  often  the  Cis- 
tercian houses  were  tamely  surrendered  to  the 
"visitors,"  pensions  and  preferment  being  ac- 

[168] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

cepted  in  quit  claim  of  sacred  and  inalienable 
rights.  Of  course  it  must  be  borne  in  mind 
that  by  the  time  the  blow  fell  on  the  greater 
houses  Henry  had  shown  quite  unmistakably 
that  some  horrible  form  of  death  was  the  only 
thing  to  be  expected  by  those  who  dared  to  resist 
his  robbery;  and  it  took  the  splendid  spirit  of 
martyrs  to  resist  him,  as  did  the  immortal  abbots 
of  the  great  Benedictine  houses  of  Glastonbury, 
Reading,  and  Colchester,  knowing  as  they  did 
that  such  resistance  would  not  stay  his  hand 
for  a  day,  and  that  it  would  end  only  in  their 
own  death.  Rievaulx  surrendered,  and  Byland ; 
John  Leeds,  last  of  the  line  in  the  latter  house, 
with  his  twenty-four  monks  gave  over  the  vast 
possessions  they  held  in  trust,  in  the  year  1540, 
at  which  time  the  lands  formed  nearly  all  of 
fifty-three  townships  with  rights  and  privileges 
in  twenty-eight  others.  The  revenues  amounted 
to  the  equivalent  of  fifteen  thousand  dollars  per 
annum,  not  a  large  sum  by  any  means,  while  the 
plate  aggregated  only  five  hundred  and  sixteen 
ounces.  Six  years  later  Byland  was  granted  to 
Sir  William  Pickering,  from  whom  it  passed  to 
Stapleton  of  Wighill,  later  to  Myton  of  Swale. 
For  generations  unnumbered  it  has  stood  as  a 
common  stone  quarry,  its  fragments  being  found 
built  into  the  walls  of  every  cottage  in  the  neigh- 

[169] 


RIEVAULX  AND  BYLAND 

bourhood.  It  is  now  desolate  and  forsaken ;  un- 
cared  for,  neglected,  despised.  The  ground 
within  the  walls  has  been  partly  cleared,  but 
mounds  of  debris  still  cry  for  excavation,  while 
the  ivy  runs  riot  over  crumbling  walls,  and  day 
by  day  its  dust  is  returning  to  dust. 


[170] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

WITH  the  dawn  of  the  fourteenth 
century  the  gathering  dusk  around 
the  Cistercian  Order  deepened  into 
night.  It  had  done  a  vast  work,  this  wonder- 
ful emanation  from  the  brains  of  St.  Robert 
and  St.  Stephen  Harding,  into  which,  under  God, 
St.  Bernard  had  breathed  a  soul,  compelling 
and  creative,  if  yet  not  defended  from  mor- 
tality. The  day  of  its  supremacy  had  passed, 
and  a  new  agency  for  righteousness  was  to 
enter  England,  in  the  persons  of  the  friars  of  the 
mendicant  orders,  to  take  up  the  work  that  for 
a  time  was  being  ill  done  by  the  older  and  more 
dignified  orders  of  monasticism.  The  twelfth 
century  had  been  the  great  age  of  Benedictine 
building,  the  thirteenth,  that  of  the  Cistercians. 
The  friars,  who  rejected  all  vested  interests, 
refused  endowments,  settled  in  slums  and 
Jewries,  and  built  hardly  at  all,  failed  to  fix  any 
mark  on  the  architecture  of  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury. The  Augustinians  were  crescent  then, 
and,  as  we  have  seen  at  Gisburgh,  wrought  often 

[171] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

gloriously,  but  the  architecture  of  the  fourteenth 
century,  so  far  as  monastic  work  is  concerned, 
was  largely  an  architecture  of  substitution, 
enlargement,  embellishment;  except  when,  as 
at  Gisburgh  and  now  far  north  in  the  Kingdom 
of  Scotland,  at  Melrose,  fire  and  sword  anni- 
hilated some  earlier  structures  and  so  made 
complete  new  building  imperative. 

Already  we  have  seen  at  Byland  in  the  very 
first  years  of  the  thirteenth  century  the  begin- 
nings of  backsliding  on  the  part  of  the  Cis- 
tercians in  the  abandonment  of  an  ascetic  archi- 
tecture in  favour  of  the  highly  developed  and 
majestic  Benedictine  type  with  its  threefold 
structural  order  and  its  complete  system  of 
processional  aisles.  At  Rievaulx  the  renuncia- 
tion has  gone  a  step  further  as  the  century 
reached  its  meridian:  stained  glass  has  been 
accepted,  and  sculpture  also,  in  all  probability, 
though  decorative  carving  has  been  eschewed, 
indeed,  I  suspect  that  the  great  crag  of  masonry 
near  the  site  of  the  chapter  house  betrays  a  lofty 
and  majestic  bell  tower,  reared  in  final  violation 
of  Cistercian  doctrine  and  discipline.  For  the 
last  step  in  the  abandonment  of  their  asceticism 
we  must  pass  north  across  the  border  to  that 
lovely  valley  of  the  Tweed,  where  Scotland's  three 
great  Kings,  St.  David,  Alexander  III.,  and 

[172] 


West  Door  of  Dryburgh. 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

Robert  the  Bruce,  have  left  in  the  abbeys  of 
Jedburgh,  Kelso,  Dryburgh,  and  Melrose,  a 
memorial  of  their  piety  and,  though  degenera- 
tion has  done  its  best  to  blot  this  out,  a  record 
of  the  artistic  power  of  a  nation  once  great, 
independent,  and,  as  well,  splendidly  devoted  to 
the  Catholic  Faith. 

Kelso,  Jedburgh,  Dryburgh,  and  Melrose  are 
in  themselves  a  complete  architectural  history 
from  St.  David  to  Robert  the  Bruce,  a  period  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  years:  from  the  frowning 
keep  of  Kelso,  half  castle  and  half  sanctuary, 
Norman  in  every  line,  through  the  earliest  transi- 
tional Gothic  of  Jedburgh,  the  later  and  fuller 
"Early  Pointed"  of  Dryburgh,  to  the  opulent 
"Decorated"  of  Melrose  and  even  to  the  Scot- 
tish parallel  of  the  then  contemporary  "  Perpen- 
dicular" of  the  southern  Kingdom. 

Melrose  is  marvellous,  no  less.  Haunted  of 
history,  legend,  and  tradition,  fretted  with  ex- 
quisite carving  and  embroidered  with  intricate 
tracery,  glittering  with  all  the  specious  para- 
phernalia of  flying  buttresses,  canopied  niches, 
panel-work,  and  pinnacles,  shattered  into  infinite 
picturesqueness,  and  aureoled  with  the  halo  of 
fine  writing,  it  is  one  of  the  show  places  of  Great 
Britain,  thronged  with  sightseers  and  trippers: 
death  and  dissolution  turned  into  a  spectacle, 

[173] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

a  pageant,  and  cannily  rendered  profitable  by 
the  tribute  of  gate  money.  Beautiful  it  is  indeed, 
a  wonder  of  sorrowful  pictures;  priceless  also  as 
a  record  of  the  mutations  and  modulations  of 
architectural  style;  and  yet,  judged  by  the  stand- 
ards of  York  Abbey  and  Whitby,  Rievaulx  and 
Gisburgh,  it  is  not  great  architecture,  for  it 
lacks  directness  and  co-ordination,  it  is  want- 
ing in  that  quality  of  inevitable  organization, 
that  masterly  incarnation  of  the  principles  of 
proportion,  composition,  development  of  struct- 
ure, and  the  relationship  of  parts,  that  raises 
the  true  masterpieces  of  British  building  to  the 
highest  levels  of  human  achievement. 

And  having  granted  this  it  is  possible  to  sit 
down  before  the  church  of  Our  Lady  of  Melrose 
and  abandon  one's  self  to  utter  enjoyment  and 
admiration.  Magisterial  classicism  is  absent, 
but  in  its  place  is  a  spontaneous  originality  and 
a  poignant  personality  greater,  perhaps,  than 
one  may  find  in  any  other  single  piece  of  mo- 
nastic architecture  in  all  Great  Britain.  The 
work  is  casual,  episodical,  part  of  it  without 
rhyme  or  reason ;  but  in  the  end  one  does  not  care 
in  the  least,  for  at  every  point  one  finds  beauty 
and  charm  and  magic  witchery.  The  earlier 
monks  "built  in  a  sad  sincerity,"  but  here  is  the 
work  of  guilds  of  jolly  laymen,  and  at  every 

[174] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

point  the  stones  proclaim  the  fact  that  when 
they  worked  at  Melrose  these  freemasons  were 
on  one  great  holiday.  Is  a  colloquialism  ad- 
missible? If  so,  one  may  say  that  "they  were 
having  the  time  of  their  lives." 

St.  Bernard  was  forgotten,  the  fourteenth 
century  had  come  and  asceticism  was  out  of 
favour,  the  abbey  was  rich,  the  ground  had  been 
cleared  of  the  stern  old  church  of  the  monks 
that  had  come  from  Rievaulx  bearing  the  Gospel 
according  to  St.  Bernard,  for  Bannockburn 
had  been  fought,  the  English  were  utterly  routed, 
and  in  frantic  vengeance  the  fleeing  hosts  had 
paused  long  enough  to  wreak  vengeance  on 
every  unarmed  thing  that  stood  in  their  way. 
Melrose  was  utterly  destroyed,  but  the  founda- 
tions remained  and  for  some  unrevealed  reason 
were  permitted  to  fix  the  lines  of  the  eastward 
termination,  so  Melrose  stands  in  form  a  typical 
Cistercian  church  with  aisleless  sanctuary;  but 
in  every  other  respect  the  bars  were  down,  and 
the  enthusiastic  freemasons  were  given  a  free 
hand  and  even  incited  to  outdo  themselves  in 
all  the  wonders  of  their  craft. 

It  was  a  carnival  of  aesthetic  license  and  of  the 
emulation  of  ambitious  and  clever  artists;  the 
day  of  the  abbot  who  traced  the  lines  of  his 
church  on  the  greensward  with  the  tip  of  his 

[175] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

jewelled  crozier  that  his  monks  with  kilted  cas- 
socks might  hew  and  lay  the  stones,  had  passed 
forever,  and  instead  had  come  the  epoch  of 
architect  and  mason.  It  was  a  complete  and 
utter  revolution,  and  here  the  line  was  drawn; 
here,  in  the  walls  of  Melrose  is  cut  the  name 
and  superscription  of  one  of  the  architects  of 
the  new  regime,  John,  surnamed  Morvo, 
Morow,  or  Murdo,  as  the  case  may  be,  for  he 
was  indifferent  as  to  spelling,  though  very 
far  therefrom  in  the  matter  of  honest  pride 
in  his  work  and  a  desire  that  his  name,  in 
some  form  or  other,  should  survive.  Over  the 
turret  door  in  the  south  transept  is  cut  in 
beautiful  "black-letter"  about  a  shield  having 
crossed  compasses  between  three  fleur-de-lys 
the  following  words : 

"  Sa  gaes  ye  compass  even  about  sa  truth  and  laute  do  but 
doubte  behalde  to  ye  hende  q  John  morvo." 

Nor  was  this  enough;  so  a  little  above  is  a 
second  inscription,  viz.: 

"John  morow:  sum  tyme:  callit:  was:  i:  and  born:  in 
parysse:  certainly:  and  had:  in:  kepping:  all:  mason:  work: 
of:  santan:  druys:  ye:  hye:  kyrk:  of:  glasgu:  melros:  and: 
pasley:  of:  nyddysdall:  and:  of:  gal  way:  i:  pray:  to:  god:  and: 
mary:  baith:  and:  sweet:  st:  John:  keep:  this:  haly:  kirk: 
frae:  skaith:" 

[176] 


Dryburgh — The    Cloisters. 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

Was  this  some  "  Jean  Moreau,"  who  was  "born 
in  parysse  certainly,"  a  true  Frenchman,  or  was 
he  christened  John  Murdo  and  born  of  Scottish 
parents  living  in  France?  It  matters  little,  for 
the  work  he  did  for  the  "haly  kirk"  of  "Melros" 
is  French  only  in  its  impulse  and  suggestion:  Eng- 
lish it  is  not  in  any  way  or  fashion,  for  from  the 
day  of  Robert  the  Bruce  the  Scotch  would  have 
learned  of  any  paynims  on  earth  sooner  than 
from  the  Southrons;  but  though  "John  of 
Parysee"  brought  to  the  rebuilding  of  Melrose 
all  the  enthusiasm  won  from  the  witnessing  of 
what  France  was  then  about,  he  and  his  lodge 
of  freemasons  (the  first,  with  that  of  Kilwinning, 
in  Scotland)  showed  no  inclination  to  duplicate 
continental  work;  instead  they  started  off  on  a 
new  tack,  invented  all  manner  of  new  devices, 
became  good  Scots,  and  went  lustily  to  work  to 
develop  a  national  style. 

And  they  accomplished  wonders:  they  were 
not  mighty  classicists  like  the  builders  of  Rie- 
vaulx  and  Whitby  and  York;  they  were  poets, 
romanticists;  form  did  not  interest  them,  but 
decoration  did,  also  the  discovery  of  all  man- 
ner of  new  motives  for  pier  sections,  arch 
mouldings,  clerestory  windows,  tracery,  vault 
shafts.  Who  built  King  Robert's  church  we 
do  not  know,  certainly  not  the  pious  John  of 

[177] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

Paris.  Whether  he  arrived  on  the  scene  with 
his  band  of  freemasons  in  time  to  begin  the  re- 
building, after  the  visitation  of  Richard  II.  in 
1389,  I  confess  I  cannot  say,  though  it  must  be 
on  record.  Lacking  the  information,  I  am  in- 
clined to  assume  that  here  also  the  rehabilita- 
tion was  begun  by  an  unknown  master  and 
only  carried  on  towards  completion  by  John 
Mordo  during  the  last  years  of  the  fifteenth  and 
the  first  of  the  sixteenth  centuries.  The  line 
of  demarcation  between  the  first  two  periods 
is  explicit:  the  earliest  and  purest,  viz.,  the 
three  existing  bays  of  the  nave  with  the  north 
and  west  walls  of  the  north  transept  and  the 
bay  next  the  crossing  in  the  west  wall  of  the 
south  transept,  together  with  the  lower  stages 
of  the  south  wall  of  this  same  transept,  is  a 
model  of  noble  art;  while  the  first  of  the  new 
work,  dating  from  the  end  of  the  fourteenth  and 
the  beginning  of  the  fifteenth  centuries,  if  more 
scrupulous  and  ornate,  is  on  a  far  lower  plane 
of  imagination.  As  the  work  went  on  it  degen- 
erated slowly,  showing  a  new  hand  quite  unmis- 
takably, and  this  new  hand  was,  I  fancy,  that 
of  Parisian  John.  The  oldest  work  is  wonder- 
ful in  its  nobility  and  its  mobile  freedom  joined 
to  a  pure  and  almost  perfect  beauty,  the  younger 
is  overloaded,  luxurious,  and  in  its  last  estate 

[178] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

angular  and  sometimes  mechanical,  while  at  the 
same  time  trivial  and  even  lawless. 

The  church  Robert  the  Bruce  caused  to  be 
built  with  his  princely  gift  of  the  equivalent  of 
two  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  dollars  to-day 
must  have  been  as  purely  beautiful  as  anything 
in  Great  Britain.  The  original  design  did  not 
include  the  great  south  range  of  aisle  chapels, 
while,  if  there  were  flying  buttresses  at  all,  they 
were  simple  in  form  and  minus  the  richly  niched 
and  crocketed  pinnacles  that  are  now  so  impor- 
tant a  part  of  the  mise-en- scene.  Rich  and 
supple  as  is  the  work  done  at  the  command  of 
Robert  the  Bruce,  it  is  rich  with  the  splendour 
of  brilliant  and  well  controlled  imagination: 
all  is  firm,  sure,  gentlemanly.  As  for  the  carv- 
ing of  cap,  boss,  corbel,  crocket,  and  string  course, 
it  is  finally  perfect:  flowers  and  vegetables  of 
field  and  garden  have  been  used  as  models;  the 
stone  employed  was  fortunately  one  that  hard- 
ened into  iron,  and  in  spite  of  one  calamity  after 
another  ending  with  three  and  a  half  centuries 
of  utter  neglect,  the  crisp  chiselling  is  as  keen 
to-day  as  it  was  when  it  left  the  hand  of  the 
mason.  No  decorative  sculpture  more  beauti- 
ful than  this  has  ever  owed  its  existence  to  the 
hand  of  man. 

The  rebuilding  after  the  terrible  visitation  of 
[179] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

the  English  king  must  have  been  done  slowly 
and  by  degrees.  It  probably  occupied  a  space 
of  nearly  a  century,  at  least  down  to  and  includ- 
ing the  incumbency  of  Abbot  Hunter,  1450- 
1460.  If  not  this,  then  the  central  tower  must 
have  fallen  about  this  time,  necessitating  an- 
other rebuilding,  for  the  shafts  next  the  eastern 
piers  of  the  tower  are  unmistakably  late  fifteenth 
century  and  poor,  the  sanctuary  dating  from 
the  same  period,  and  the  westernmost  of  the  aisle 
chapels  also,  while  the  eastern  nave  chapels 
and  the  upper  portion  of  the  south  transept  are 
much  earlier,  though  surely  a  century  later  than 
King  Robert's  work.  Abbot  Hunter's  monogram 
appears  in  many  places  in  the  work  towards 
the  east  and  as  well  in  the  earlier  of  the 
nave  chapels;  the  last  buttress  of  all  bears  the 
royal  arms  and  the  date  1505,  and,  though  it 
may  have  been  inserted  in  earlier  work,  prob- 
ably proves  that  the  rebuilding  and  extension 
were  constant  and  uninterrupted  from  the  visi- 
tation of  Richard  II.  until  the  final  destruction 
of  the  abbey  by  the  English  in  1545.  So  com- 
plete is  the  ruin  and  so  puzzling  the  laudable 
practice  of  the  renovators  in  using  over  again 
material  from  the  more  ancient  church,  Melrose 
is  a  veritable  enigma  and  a  fruitful  field  for  the 
architect  and  archaeologist. 

[180] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

But  whether  or  no  we  give  it  absolute  praise 
as  art,  linking  it  with  York  and  Gisburgh,  as  a 
picture  and  as  an  impulse  to  every  kind  of  poetic 
emotion  it  finds  rivals  only  in  Glastonbury, 
Netley,  and  Fountains.  All  this  follows,  how- 
ever, from  the  peculiarly  effective  nature  of  the 
ruins  and  from  the  thronging  memories  and 
associations  that  haunt  its  walls  like  grey  ghosts. 
Hard  as  was  the  fate  of  the  English  abbeys, 
that  of  those  in  Scotland  has  been  immeasurably 
more  bitter.  Robbed  and  ruined  by  "com- 
mendatory abbots,"  sacked  and  burned  by 
invading  armies,  dying  by  treachery,  and  aban- 
doned at  last  to  canny  "squatters,"  the  great 
fabrics  have  not  only  served  as  parish  stone- 
quarries,  they  have  fallen  a  prey  to  thrifty  citi- 
zens who  parcelled  out  the  lands  and  buildings 
among  themselves,  reserving  some  portion  of 
the  church  itself  for  the  uses  of  the  local  "  pres- 
bytery." Instead,  therefore,  of  lonely  ruins 
hidden  in  shielding  forests,  forgotten  often  of 
man,  we  find  the  glories  of  ancient  Scotland 
jostled  by  hovels,  workshops,  and  inns,  rising 
sheer,  not  from  green  meadows  or  amongst 
tangled  thickets  of  thorn,  but  out  of  unseemly 
assemblages  of  shops  and  houses  crowding  up 
into  cloister  and  graveyard,  obliterating  every 
trace  of  chapter  house,  refectory,  dorter,  even, 

[181] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

in  some  cases,  of  portions  of  the  church 
itself. 

Here  at  Melrose,  while  there  is  one  good  view 
from  the  highway  to  the  south  across  gardens 
and  the  eighteenth  century  graveyard,  and 
another  from  the  east,  all  to  the  north  and  west 
has  become  a  sordid  huddle  of  modern  edifices 
blotting  out  all  trace  of  the  original  monastic 
buildings  and  the  greater  part  of  the  close.  A 
tiny  triangle  of  turf  is  all  that  remains  of  the 
cloister-garth;  the  rest,  with  the  site  of  all  the 
many  buildings  of  the  monastery  itself,  is  over- 
run with  cheap  dwellings  and  crowded  gardens : 
the  "  Abbey  Hotel'*  almost  touches  the  last  stones 
of  the  nave,  narrow  alleys  thread  the  once  sacred 
precincts,  and  everywhere  is  the  connotation  of 
meanness  and  encroaching  greed.  The  Duke 
of  Buccleuch  has  done  and  is  doing  all  he  can 
to  save  what  still  remains,  but  there  is  a  burning 
need  of  some  general  action  that  will  seize  the 
whole  area  once  included  in  the  close  to  the 
north  and  west,  sweep  it  clear  of  the  cumber- 
ing buildings,  and  trace  again  the  lines  of  the 
once  vast  monastery,  pressing  back  into  bounds 
the  lawless  holdings  of  the  laity,  leaving  the 
splendid  ruin  isolated  once  more  and  purged  of 
its  unworthy  neighbours. 

But  there  is  another  crying  need  more  impor- 
[182] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

tunate  yet  perfectly  possible  of  achievement: 
when  in  1618  the  desecrated  wreck  fell  into 
the  hands  of  the  local  "presbytery"  the  three 
bays  of  the  nave  that  still  remained,  about  a 
tenth  of  the  original  church,  were  found  quite 
sufficient  for  the  religious  needs  of  the  growing 
town  under  the  new  order  of  things,  and  they 
were  walled  in  and  rehabilitated  after  a  fashion 
that  in  its  horrible  barbarism  is  a  lasting  com- 
mentary on  the  relationship  between  the  fifteenth 
and  the  seventeenth  centuries.  These  crude 
masses  of  savage  masonry,  preaching  insistently 
the  terrible  change  that  had  come  over  the  minds 
and  the  powers  of  men,  still  stand,  hiding  the 
whole  north  arcade,  beheading  the  exquisite 
order  of  the  clerestory,  substituting  in  place  of  a 
once  wonderful  and  delicate  vaulting  a  bar- 
barous barrel  vault  of  clumsy  masonry.  The 
lesson  this  contrast  teaches  is  important,  but 
now  that  it  is  learned  the  shameful  records  may 
be  destroyed  and  the  noble  ruin  purged  of  an 
hateful  intruder. 

Apart  from  the  wonderful  charm  of  Melrose 
as  a  ruin  and  a  thing  of  strange,  almost  unearthly 
beauty,  lies  another  power  over  the  imagination 
almost  equal  in  its  potency.  The  mere  name 
brings  up  an  endless  succession  of  memories, 
dreams  of  those  whose  mortal  parts  once  lay 

[183] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

within  the  walls  in  peaceful  sepulture.  Here 
rested  the  good  King,  Alexander  II.,  and  his 
Queen;  Douglasses  unnumbered;  Sir  William 
of  Lothian;  William,  first  Earl  of  Douglass;  an- 
other William,  called  "the  Dark  Knight  of 
Liddesdale,  the  Flower  of  Chivalry";  the  "  Good 
Sir  James,"  who,  faithful  to  the  death,  brought 
back  from  the  Holy  Land  "the  Heart  of 
Bruce,"  that  it  might  be  buried  beneath  the  high 
altar  in  the  church  he  had  made  glorious.  Here 
also  were  buried  the  dark  and  mysterious 
Michael  Scott,  "The  Race  of  ye  Hous  of  Zair," 
"Scotts  of  Gala,"  "Pringles  of  Galashiels," 
"Bostons  of  Gattonside";  of  these  last  four 
families  many  who  died  long  after  the  ruin  of 
the  abbey,  but  who  still  sought  burial,  as  their 
fathers  had  done,  within  the  sacred  walls.  Dust 
and  ashes  are  dispersed  and  have  become  united 
with  the  dust  and  ashes  of  the  perished  abbey, 
but  the  chiselled  records  still  last  in  the  hard 
stone  of  the  walls  or  in  shards  of  tomb  and  tablet. 
Of  an  hundred  statues  that  once  looked 
down  from  fretted  niche  and  windy  pinnacle 
some  few  still  stand.  The  Presbyterians  wrecked 
the  greater  part,  but  curiously  enough  St.  Bridget 
still  remains  in  her  niche,  St.  Peter,  St.  Paul, 
St.  John  Baptist,  St.  Andrew,  and,  most  wonder- 
ful of  all  when  one  thinks  of  the  temper  of  the 

[184] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

time,  a  coronation  of  the  Blessed  Virgin,  and 
another  statue  of  Our  Lady  with  the  Holy  Child 
in  her  arms.  When  in  1649  a  certain  zealot 
climbed  to  the  buttress  pinnacle  to  shatter  this 
last  statue,  the  first  fragment  split  off  struck 
and  broke  his  arm,  and  ever  since  the  sacred 
image  has  been  left  in  peace.  On  either  side 
the  south  transept  are  figures  of  monks  bearing 
scrolls,  on  which  are  written  in  abbreviated 
Latin  words  that  are  strangely  prophetic :  to  the 
east,  "He  suffered  because  He  Himself  willed 
it  " ;  to  the  west,  "  When  comes  Jesus  the  Medi- 
ator darkness  will  cease." 

With  Melrose  may  be  linked  another  abbey, 
the  Prsemonstratensian  monastery  of  Dryburgh, 
partly  because  of  its  geographical  propinquity, 
partly  because  of  its  foundation  under  the  patron- 
age of  the  same  royal  saint,  King  David,  partly 
from  its  close  association  with  Melrose  in  the 
love  and  devotion  of  Sir  Walter  Scott,  who  rever- 
enced Melrose,  but  lies  buried  in  Dryburgh, 
partly  for  the  reason  that  the  latter  house  is  one 
of  the  few  in  Scotland  that  is  not  insulted  by 
"squatter  sovereignty."  Dryburgh,  utter  ruin 
that  it  is,  and  small  and  modest  as  it  was  in  its 
best  estate,  is  a  thing  of  pure  beauty,  lapped  in 
thick  verdure,  tenderly  cherished  by  its  present 
proprietor,  G.  O.  H.  E.  S.  Erskine,  Esquire. 

[185] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

The  approach  is  just  what  it  should  be:  a 
walk  or  drive  from  Melrose  or  St.  Boswells 
through  quiet  country  lanes,  a  passage  of  the 
Tweed  by  the  long,  unstable  foot-bridge,  a 
plunge  into  forest,  a  sudden  outcoming  into 
a  sunny  little  glade  where,  ringed  by  great  oaks 
and  submerged  in  an  everlasting  peace,  all  that 
is  left  of  Dryburgh  basks  in  the  sun.  It  is  not 
supremely  important  architecturally:  nothing 
remains  of  the  church  but  the  east  wall  of  the 
north  transept  and  two  bays  of  the  north  choir 
wall,  with  three  aisle  bays  at  the  angle,  the 
gable  of  the  south  transept,  a  fragment  of  that 
to  the  north,  and  the  lower  stages  of  the  west 
wall.  The  conventual  buildings  are  better  pre- 
served, the  eastern  range  being  nearly  intact, 
while  the  cloister  is  clearly  marked  by  standing 
walls.  The  refectory,  which  in  monasteries  of 
this  order  lay  parallel  to  the  church,  is  gone,  all 
but  portions  of  its  undercroft,  and  its  beautiful 
west  end  with  the  delicate  rose  window.  The 
easterly  buildings,  including  the  chapter  house 
and  fratry,  are  early  transitional  Norman,  the 
church  a  fine  North  version  of  what  in  the  South 
would  be  called  "  Early  English,"  the  refectory, 
early  fourteenth  century,  evidently  dating  from 
the  rebuilding  made  necessary  by  the  visitation 
of  Edward  II.  after  Bannockburn.  The  earlier 

[186] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

work  is  probably  a  part  of  the  original  construc- 
tion provided  for  by  Hugo  de  Morville,  Lord 
Lauderdale,  and  his  wife  Beatrix  de  Beauchamp, 
in  1150.  Why  or  when  the  new  church  was 
built  we  do  not  know;  but  it  was  a  fine,  strong 
piece  of  early  Gothic,  consistently  differentiated 
from  the  contemporary  work  in  England.  It  is 
particularly  interesting  in  that  it  shows  how  the 
Scotch  clung  to  the  round  arch  long  after  the 
rest  of  their  work  had  become  thoroughly  Gothic ; 
not  only  is  the  thirteenth  century  door  of  the 
monks  round  arched,  though  with  purely  Gothic 
mouldings  and  capitals,  but  the  fourteenth  cen- 
tury west  door,  built  after  the  burning  of  the 
abbey  by  Richard  II.  in  1385,  is  the  same.  No- 
where in  Great  Britain  did  Gothic  builders 
attach  any  particular  sanctity  to  the  pointed 
arch,  and  in  Scotland  especially,  arches  of  all 
possible  centrings  were  used  at  will. 

Dryburgh  is  one  of  the  few  ruins  remaining 
of  the  houses  of  Pnemonstratensian  monks,  or 
friars,  as  they  were  more  commonly  called;  in- 
deed it  is  practically  the  only  one  in  Great  Britain 
that  is  more  than  a  legend  and  a  tradition.  At 
the  Suppression  there  were  but  thirty  houses  in 
England,  and  perhaps  a  fourth  as  many  in  Scot- 
land. An  offshoot  of  the  great  Augustinian 
reformation,  the  order  was  the  creation  of  St. 

[187] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

Norbert,  a  noble  of  Xanten,  near  Cologne,  who, 
having  tried  in  vain  to  bring  the  canons  of 
Laon  under  some  orderly  rule  of  life,  retired  to 
a  marshy  valley  called  Premontre,  in  Picardy, 
where  he  forthwith  founded  for  himself  an  order 
of  great  distinction,  the  rules  of  which,  based  on 
those  said  to  have  been  drawn  up  by  St.  Augus- 
tine himself,  were  of  notable  rigour  and  severity. 
None  was  admitted  as  a  canon  who  was  not  a 
Latin  scholar;  absolute  and  unquestioning  obe- 
dience was  exacted;  and  an  unusual  amount  of 
time  was  assigned  to  manual  labour,  which  was 
obligatory  upon  all.  It  appears  also  from  the 
Rule  and  the  records  that  singular  insistence 
was  laid  on  the  virtues  of  thoughtfulness  for 
others,  courtesy,  good  manners,  and  scrupulous 
ceremonial. 

The  name  of  Dryburgh  has  been  associated 
with  those  of  many  men  eminent  in  their  day: 
Abbot  Oliver,  royal  ambassador  to  England; 
Canon  Patrick,  poet  and  man  of  letters;  Ralph 
of  Strode,  the  friend  of  Chaucer  and  lusty  an- 
tagonist of  Wiclif;  Chaucer  himself,  who  lived 
here  for  a  time;  and  finally,  during  the  early 
sixteenth  century,  a  line  of  commendators, 
some  of  whom  were  less  infamous  than  the  gen- 
eral run  of  these  royal  bloodsuckers  who  were 
responsible  for  the  ruin  and  fall  of  monasticism 

[188] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

in  Scotland.  Of  the  first  of  these,  Andrew 
Forman,  no  good  can  be  said,  except  that  he 
was  a  clever  though  profligate  and  unscrupu- 
lous diplomat.  He  rivalled  even  Wolsey  as  a 
pluralist,  and  ruin  followed  his  footsteps  wher- 
ever they  fell  in  abbey  or  cathedral.  Ogilvie 
and  Hamilton  followed,  the  latter  a  natural  son 
of  Lord  Hamilton,  father  of  the  Earl  of  Arran; 
and  finally  came  James  Stuart,  who  tried  in 
vain  to  stem  the  tide  of  simony,  sacrilege,  and 
depredation  that  was  engulfing  the  Scottish 
Church. 

The  end  came  in  1545.  A  year  before  that 
choice  aggregation,  Sir  Ralph  Eure,  Sir  George 
Bowes,  and  Sir  Brian  Layton,  at  the  head  of  the 
invading  English  army  had  burned  Dryburgh 
town  and  laid  waste  a  great  area  of  fertile  coun- 
try. This  action  so  charmed  Henry  VIII.  he 
promised  Eure  and  Layton  a  feudal  grant  of 
the  land  they  had  devastated;  thereupon  Archi- 
bald Douglass,  Earl  of  Angus,  true  to  the  spirit 
of  his  great  house,  promised  "  to  write  the  deed 
of  investiture  upon  their  skins  with  sharp  pens 
and  bloody  ink."  And  he  did  so  in  a  year,  for 
there  fell  one  of  those  acts  of  retribution  that 
brighten  the  pages  of  history.  Back  again  on 
their  evil  errand  and  anxious  to  make  good 
their  title  to  their  new  estates,  Eure  and  Lay- 

[189] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

ton,  with  three  thousand  mercenaries,  fifteen 
hundred  English  foot,  and  a  few  hundred 
disaffected  Scots,  swept  through  the  lowlands, 
burned  Melrose,  Kelso,  Dryburgh,  and  four 
more  abbeys,  sixteen  castles,  five  great  towers, 
two  hundred  and  forty- three  villages,  etc.,  and 
so  turned  homeward  with  light  hearts.  But  a 
just  fate  lay  waiting  them  on  the  field  of  Ancrum 
Moor:  there  they  were  confronted  by  the  fear- 
less Earl  of  Angus,  Norman  Lesly,  and  Sir  Walter 
Scott  of  Buccleuch.  Eure  and  Layton  attacked 
desperately,  but  the  Scottish  lances  bore  down 
their  men,  the  lowlanders  went  over  to  their 
own  people,  Eure  and  Layton  were  slain  in  the 
field,  and  the  entire  English  force  was  put  to 
utter  rout,  eight  hundred  being  killed,  more 
than  a  thousand  taken.  It  was  too  late  to  save 
the  great  abbeys  that  were  the  pride  of  Scot- 
land; but  at  least  we  may  rejoice  that  Eure  and 
Layton  were  killed  within  hail  of  the  sanctuaries 
they  had  despoiled  and  by  the  Douglass,  the 
tombs  of  whose  ancestors  they  had  dishonoured 
in  Melrose  Abbey. 

The  throne  and  the  new  spirit  of  the  age  had 
with  simony,  confiscation,  and  abbots  com- 
mendatory, brought  down  in  ruins  the  Church 
of  Scotland  and  the  spiritual  fabric  of  monas- 
ticism,  but  the  abbeys  themselves  owe  their 

[190] 


MELROSE  AND  DRYBURGH 

ruin  in  the  first  instance  less  to  lay  favourites  of 
a  dishonoured  royal  house  than  to  the  fire  and 
sword  of  English  invaders  sent  by  the  king  who 
already  had  wrought  his  will  on  the  Church  in 
England. 


[191] 


KIRKSTALL, 

ONCE  upon  a  time,  far  in  the  south  of 
England,  a  certain  hermit  dwelt  by 
himself,  apart;  and  in  the  watches  of 
the  night  a  voice  called  him  by  name  and  said 
"Seleth,  arise!  Go  thou  unto  the  province 
of  York,  and  there  thou  shalt  find  a  certain 
valley  hidden  in  deep-bosomed  forests  far  from 
the  footsteps  of  men.  In  Airedale  it  lies,  and 
its  name  is  called  Kirkstall;  there  shalt  thou 
prepare  for  the  Brotherhood  a  home  where  they 
may  serve  my  Son.'* 

"And  who  is  thy  Son  whom  we  must  serve?" 

"I  am  Mary,  and  my  Son  is  called  Jesus  of 
Nazareth,  the  Saviour  of  the  World." 

Thereupon  Seleth  arose,  and,  taking  certain 
other  holy  men  with  him,  journeyed  towards 
the  north  until  he  found  the  valley  that  is  called 
Kirkstall,  and  there  he  and  his  brethren  abode 
in  prayer  for  a  time. 

And  upon  a  day  came  before  him  a  certain 
abbot,  Alexander  by  name,  and  superior  of  the 
Cistercian  abbey  of  Mt.  St.  Mary.  Now  the 

[192] 


Kirkstall — In  the  Chapter  House. 


KIRKSTALL 

abbot  was  troubled  in  his  mind ;  for  it  was  ill  with 
his  house,  and  incessant  quarrels  with  the  neigh- 
bouring secular  priests,  coupled  with  great  adver- 
sity, had  filled  him  with  sorrow.  The  Lord  Henry 
de  Lacy,  mercifully  recovered  from  a  deadly 
sickness,  had  granted  land  and  money  for  the 
founding  of  a  religious  house  under  the  direc- 
tion of  the  Abbot  of  Fountains,  but  already  on 
this  land  there  were  secular  priests,  and  warfare 
got  between  them  and  the  monks  from  Foun- 
tains, to  such  degree  that  in  sudden  rage  he, 
Alexander  the  Abbot,  had  pulled  down  the  parish 
church,  because  of  which  he  had  been  accused 
before  the  Pope  himself,  and,  though  justified 
by  the  Holy  See,  his  conscience  was  troubled 
and  he  no  longer  loved  the  lands  where  his  new 
house  stood. 

The  peace  of  God  brooded  over  this  sunny 
and  hidden  valley;  none  knew  thereof  save  the 
humble  hermits  striving  to  serve  God  though 
without  rule  or  order;  the  beauty  of  the  place 
with  its  little  river,  its  deep  meadows  ringed  with 
untrodden  woods,  its  many  flowers  and  its  song 
of  birds,  struck  to  the  heart  of  the  impatient  and 
unhappy  abbot,  and,  finding  that  the  hermits 
were  not  averse  to  accepting  the  Rule  of  the 
blessed  Saint  Robert,  the  abbot  departed  and, 
coming  before  de  Lacy,  prayed  that  he  might 

[193] 


KIRKSTALL 

remove  from  St.  Mary's  and  begin  again  in  the 
gentle  valley  of  the  Aire.  The  which  was  per- 
mitted, for  William  de  Poictu,  the  lord  of  the 
lands,  at  the  petition  of  his  friend  granted  Kirk- 
stall  to  the  monks,  in  perpetuity,  at  the  rent  of 
five  marks  per  year. 

The  transfer  was  made;  the  hermits  became 
Cistercian  monks;  and  forthwith  Alexander 
began  the  erection  of  a  great  abbey  which  was 
speedily  completed,  the  while  an  ever  increasing 
household  laboured  to  reduce  the  wilderness 
and  bring  it  under  cultivation.  It  was  in  the 
year  of  Our  Lord  1153  that  Alexander  brought 
his  monks  to  Kirkstall;  for  thirty  years  there- 
after he  lived  and  worked,  and,  when  he  died, 
he  left  the  vast  monastery  perfect  and  finished 
and  almost  as  it  stands  to-day. 

Rather,  as  its  hopeless  ruins  stand,  for  after 
three  centuries  and  a  half  it  was  given  over  to 
ruin  and  sacrilege,  and  for  yet  another  three 
hundred  and  fifty  years  the  wreck  stood  desolate, 
whilst  the  wilderness  crept  back  over  the  lands 
the  monks  had  cleared:  like  advancing  armies, 
rank  on  rank  the  steady  trees  sprung  up  nearer 
and  nearer,  the  vines  and  wild  plants  crept  up 
and  over  the  walls,  and  in  cloister  and  sanctuary 
and  unroofed  rooms  tall  trees  flourished  un- 
checked, while  the  crystal  Aire  vanished  once 

[194] 


KIRKSTALL 

more  in  the  midst  of  trees  and  shrubs  and  clam- 
bering vines. 

Fifty  years  have  brought  a  sea-change  of 
deepest  melancholy.  As  late  as  the  year  1835 
one  might  sit  in  the  inn  at  Kirkstall  Bridge  (an 
experience  one  does  not  repeat  a  second  time 
in  this  year  of  Grace  1905)  and  look  across  still 
fields  to  where  by  the  then  untainted  Aire,  the 
ivy-hung  ruins  rose  silent,  reproachful,  yet 
serene.  Now  one  leaves  the  singularly  repellant 
and  obnoxious  city  of  Leeds,  buried  in  its  fog  of 
filthy  smoke,  turbulent  with  a  tide  of  strident 
mill-hands,  glad  even  of  the  screeching  train 
that  removes  him  from  a  scene  of  such  superb 
commercial  activity.  A  few  minutes  serves  to 
bring  him  to  the  black  little  station  at  Kirkstall; 
he  crosses  the  bridge,  and  then,  off  to  the  left, 
he  sees  the  shattered  tower  of  the  abbey,  not 
over  lush  fields,  but  between  harsh  walls  of 
clamouring  mills  and  through  the  gaunt  palings 
of  foul  chimneys  belching  dull  clouds  of  smoke 
into  the  already  overladen  air.  And  the  limpid 
river,  the  gentle  stream  that  was  once  so  clear 
and  pure  it  justified  the  old  spelling  of  "  Chrys- 
tall"  Abbey:  where  is  it?  There  still,  in  a  way, 
but  how  hideously  changed:  "where  once  the 
deer,  wild  boar  and  white  bull  were  wander- 
ing in  unfrequented  woods  or  wading  in  un- 

[195] 


KIRKSTALL 

tainted  waters,"  harsh  piles  of  festering  refuse 
break  down  into  a  slow  tide  creeping  shamefully 
onward,  glittering  with  the  noxious  iridescence 
of  sewers  and  waste-pipes,  clogged  by  rubbish, 
thickened  with  slime.  We  turn  away  in  disgust, 
but  to  the  right  the  prospect  is  equally  evil. 
Every  vestige  of  forest  and  field  is  gone,  and  the 
great  roll  of  hillside  is  scored  across  by  parallel 
streets,  newly  laid  out,  foolishly  named,  and  half 
built  up  with  blocks  of  the  cheapest,  ugliest, 
and  most  criminal  tenements  conceivable  to 
the  imagination.  A  more  loathsome  suburb  one 
could  not  find:  it  possesses  every  known  ele- 
ment of  the  sordid  and  the  savage  that  is  the 
inevitable  concomitant  of  industrial  civilization. 
Again  one  looks  away,  this  time  towards  the 
venerable  abbey  now  close  at  hand.  Waiting 
for  the  clanging  passage  of  several  trolley-cars, 
bedizened  with  glaring  advertisements,  and 
avoiding  a  dray  or  two  of  clanking  scrap-iron, 
one  enters  the  monastic  precincts  and  finds  — 
a  smug  and  neatly  tended  public  park,  with 
nice  cinder  paths,  neat  beds  of  party-coloured 
flowers,  iron  palings,  varnished  garden  seats, 
and  printed  signs  and  warnings  at  every  turn. 

From  the  abbey  itself  every  sign  of  tree  or 
shrub  or  vine  or  flower  has  been  eliminated; 
it  now  stands  gaunt  and  naked,  as  harsh  and 

[196] 


KIRKSTALL 

crude  as  when  it  was  left  by  the  despoilers  nearly 
four  centuries  ago.  An  elegant  and  commodi- 
ous band-stand  fronts  the  west  portal ;  a  section 
of  one  of  the  monastic  buildings  has  been  turned 
into  a  shop  for  the  sale  of  engaging  and  inexpen- 
sive souvenirs,  light  refreshments,  and  ginger- 
pop,  whilst  alluring  penny-in-the-slot  machines 
are  ranged  in  serried  ranks  along  the  venerable 
walls. 

Well,  it  is  all  a  good  breathing-space  for  the 
languid  mill-hands  of  Leeds:  here  on  a  shiny 
bench  an  old  man  is  dozing  peacefully;  beside 
him  a  young  mechanic  is  poring  over  congenial 
news  in  a  cheap  sporting  paper;  along  the  paths 
a  lanky  girl  trundles  her  little  brother  in  a  shabby 
perambulator,  whilst  a  pale  and  evidently  sickly 
father  leads  a  querulous  and  equally  sickly  child 
around  the  cloister  walks.  The  old  has  suc- 
cumbed to  the  new,  and  now  the  new,  weary 
and  unsatisfied  and  broken,  turns  again  for 
refreshment  to  the  ruins  of  the  old:  a  strange 
curve,  not  yet  prolonged  into  a  perfect  ring. 

Kirkstall  is  not,  nor  ever  was,  an  abbey  of 
distinguished  beauty:  it  is  too  early  in  date  for 
that;  but  it  is  practically  all  of  one  period, 
unusually  well  preserved,  quite  untransformed 
by  later  additions  of  Benedictine  choir  or  sump- 
tuous accessories  of  any  kind,  therefore  it  is 

[197] 


KIRKSTALL 

deeply  interesting,  and  profoundly  valuable  as 
a  perfect  type  of  the  earliest  and  most  character- 
istic Cistercian  architecture. 

Once,  and  not  so  long  ago,  it  was  picturesque 
and  beautiful  as  well,  for  the  walls  were  mantled 
with  deep  ivy,  wall-flowers  and  eglantine  grew 
along  the  crests,  and  great  trees  sheltered  the 
poor  ruins  and  made  them  all  a  part  of  nature 
itself.  I  found  in  a  little  shop  some  photographs 
of  Kirkstall  as  it  was  ten  years  ago,  and  these 
will  serve  to  show,  in  contrast  with  those  of 
to-day,  how  much  of  pure  beauty  has  been  lost 
through  the  well-meaning  efforts  of  archaeologists 
and  curators.  It  all  seems  pitifully  unneces- 
sary; so  the  wreck  had  stood  for  three  hundred 
and  fifty  years,  and  no  harm  had  come  from  the 
kindly  guardianship  of  gentle  vegetation;  will 
the  record  of  the  future  be  more  satisfactory 
now  that  the  walls  stand  bare  and  lifeless,  forti- 
fied with  crude  supports  and  braced  by  rigid 
tie-rods  ? 

And  it  is  all  so  well-intentioned,  yet  so  inade- 
quate. If  Kirkstall  must  cease  to  be  merely  a 
perfect  picture,  if  it  must  become  a  pleasure 
ground  and  breathing  space  for  ugly  Leeds, 
how  much  better  it  would  have  been  had  the 
reparation  not  ceased  when  it  did :  had  the  work 
continued,  the  vaults  and  roofs  risen  again,  the 

[198] 


KIRKSTALL 

great  tower  continued  to  its  ancient  estate, 
the  windows  been  filled  with  painted  glass,  the 
altars  restored  in  sanctuary  and  chapel,  and 
all  turned  over  again  to  consecrated  men.  Then 
might  have  been  resumed  after  the  long  silence 
the  sequence  of  prayers  and  praise  and  the  inces- 
sant pleading  of  the  Sacrifice  of  Calvary;  then 
might  have  begun  anew  the  services  of  teaching 
and  mercy,  charity  and  consolation;  and  the 
precincts  of  Our  Lady  of  Kirkstall  would  have 
come  to  be  something  more  than  one  in  a  series 
of  municipal  improvements,  an  active,  not  a 
passive  beneficence. 

In  many  instances  such  rehabilitation  would 
be  impossible,  whilst  the  sites  of  many  abbeys 
would  prevent  their  use  as  active  and  immedi- 
ate agencies  of  assistance  and  leadership.  We 
can  not  think  of  Netley  shorn  of  its  perfect 
beauty  of  nature's  vestments,  whilst  Glaston- 
bury,  Gisburgh,  Whitby,  York,  have  been 
wrecked  beyond  reparation;  but  Kirkstall  stands 
so  nearly  complete  that,  now  its  quality  of  beauty 
has  been  swept  away,  it  seems  clamorously 
imperative  that  it  should  be  restored  again  to 
its  sacred  uses,  particularly  since  its  nearness 
to  one  of  those  festering  centres  of  industry  and 
progressive  degradation,  that  cry  to-day  for 
spiritual  leadership,  makes  the  possibilities  of 

[199] 


KIRKSTALL 

its  beneficence  so  perfectly  assured.  As  one 
stands  in  the  great,  gaunt  nave,  one  dreams 
inevitably  of  the  time  when  the  music  from  the 
band-stand  shall  give  place  to  solemn  Gregorians 
beating  antiphonally  beneath  the  curving  vaults 
of  the  great  sanctuary;  when  the  smoke  of  in- 
cense shall  rise  within  the  walls  in  place  of  the 
fumes  of  cheap  tobacco;  when  penny-in-the-slot 
machines  shall  be  superseded  by  the  Church's 
Sacraments ;  and  when  the  poor,  the  spiritually 
as  well  as  the  materially  poor,  shall  come,  not  to 
look  in  dull  wonder  on  blasted  ruins,  but  to  find 
the  active  and  potent  aid  that  comes  from  the 
hearts  and  hands  of  tried  and  proven  men, 
bound  under  Divine  law  for  the  cure  and  salva- 
tion of  souls. 

Curiously  enough  I  find  in  an  amusing  old 
hand-book  for  the  abbey,  printed  in  1876  and 
written  with  all  due  regard  to  the  traditional 
"monkish  ignorance  and  superstition"  that 
were  once  supposed  so  fully  proven,  an  indica- 
tion that  exactly  this  course  was  once  contem- 
plated. It  seems  that  "  Colonel  Ackroyd,  M.P., 
and  a  committee  of  gentlemen  formed  for  the 
purchase  and  partial  restoration  of  Kirkstall 
Abbey,"  called  in  that  great  architect,  the  late 
Sir  Gilbert  Scott  for  the  very  purpose  of  indi- 
cating to  them  whether  the  abbey  church  could 

[200] 


KIRKSTALL 

be  restored  to  its  former  estate,  and  if  so,  at 
what  cost.  Sir  Gilbert's  report  is  a  master- 
piece of  reverential  feeling.  He  says  in  part 
"where  its  stonework  is  hopelessly  decayed,  it 
must  be  renewed,  though  only  in  such  extreme 
cases  which  will,  I  hope,  be  but  a  few,  but  I 
would  never  think  of  obliterating  the  corrosions 
of  stones  which  three  hundred  winters  have  made 
upon  the  interior,  but  would  leave  these  marks 
in  commemoration,  however  humiliating,  of  all 
these  long  centuries  of  neglect.  Externally  the 
old  bemossed  surfaces  would,  of  course,  remain, 
as  should  be  the  case  with  any  other  ancient 
church." 

His  estimates  of  the  total  cost  necessary  for 
restoring  the  church  itself  to  its  former  estate, 
together  with  altars,  furniture,  organ,  decora- 
tion, and  chairs,  amounted  to  but  thirty-four 
thousand  two  hundred  and  fifty  pounds.  It 
would  seem  then  that  even  to-day  the  compara- 
tively small  sum  of  two  hundred  thousand 
dollars  would  be  sufficient  to  make  the  church 
itself  sound,  whole,  and  complete  once  more, 
and  ready  for  occupation. 

Kirkstall  is  the  most  complete  of  all  the  ruined 
abbeys  of  Great  Britain.  The  church  itself 
is  intact  except  for  the  roofs  of  the  nave  and 
transepts,  which  were  never  vaulted,  and  the 

[201] 


KIRKSTALL 

central  tower;  the  eastern  end  with  its  vaulted 
sacrarium  and  six  transept  chapels  is  complete. 
The  fifteenth  century  tower,  the  only  violation 
of  Cistercian  order  perpetrated  at  Kirkstall, 
fell  sometime  in  the  eighteenth  century,  but  the 
ruin  was  by  no  means  complete,  one  entire  wall 
and  part  of  a  second  still  standing,  whilst  the 
injury  to  the  main  fabric  wrought  by  this  catas- 
trophe was  comparatively  slight.  Of  the  mo- 
nastic buildings  the  major  part  remains:  the 
infirmary  and  the  range  of  buildings  apportioned 
to  the  lay  brothers  were  torn  down  immedi- 
ately after  the  Suppression  at  the  order  of  the 
town  council  of  Leeds,  the  material  being  used 
for  widening  bridges  and  for  road  metal.  All 
the  rest  is  singularly  perfect,  so  far  as  the  lower 
walls  are  concerned,  the  remains  of  the  abbot's 
lodgings  being  particularly  complete.  It  is  all 
in  a  massive,  late  Norman  style,  powerful  and 
absolutely  simple,  without  elaboration  or  orna- 
ment of  any  kind ;  the  round  arch  is  used  through- 
out, except  in  the  nave  arcade  and  in  the 
later  additions,  such  as  the  great  east  window 
and  the  upper  stage  of  the  tower.  Stern, 
almost  forbidding  in  its  design,  it  is  a  noble 
type  of  the  architectural  style  first  developed 
by  the  ascetic  Cistercians,  though  immediately 
abandoned  for  the  true  Gothic,  this  order 

[202] 


KIRKSTALL 

was  so  instrumental  in  bringing  to  its  highest 
estate  in  England. 

The  history  of  Kirkstall  shows  few  episodes 
of  great  moment  to  any  except  the  brothers 
therein.  Alexander,  the  first  abbot  and  great 
architect,  was  succeeded  by  Ralph  Hageth  "a 
religious  man,  and  renouned  for  all  sanctity," 
but  doomed  to  adversity  through  the  malice 
of  the  Crown.  During  his  abbacy  matters 
grew  steadily  worse  until  at  last  the  poor  abbot 
was  driven  to  close  his  house  and  disperse  the 
brothers  amongst  neighbouring  abbeys,  "  chiefly 
because  they  hoped  by  these  means  to  incline 
the  Prince  to  compassion."  Disappointed  in 
this  they  gathered  again  at  Kirkstall.  Ralph 
was  translated  to  Fountains,  and  an  old  monk, 
Lambert  by  name,  assumed  the  crozier.  Affairs 
ran  no  better  under  him:  land  was  stolen  from 
the  monastery,  granges  were  burned  by  the 
lawless  tribes  of  the  neighbourhood,  and  year 
after  year  Kirkstall  sank  under  a  heavy  load 
of  debt.  Turgsius,  the  fourth  abbot,  strove  by 
the  savage  severities  of  his  life  and  his  copious 
and  unremitting  tears,  "whereof  he  shed  so  great 
a  flood  that  he  did  not  seem  to  weep  but  to  rain 
down  tears,  in  so  much  that  the  sacerdotal  vest- 
ments he  wore  (at  mass)  could  scarce  be  used  by 
any  other,"  to  avert  Divine  anger  from  his  house. 

[203] 


KIRKSTALL 

But  all  in  vain:  abbot  after  abbot  succeeded, 
and  died  after  brief  incumbencies,  until  at  last, 
when  Hugh  Grimstone  was  chosen  in  1284,  he 
found  matters  in  a  scandalous  state.  The  mon- 
astery possessed  but  16  draught  cattle,  84  cows, 
and  no  sheep  whatever,  whilst  the  debts  had 
arisen  to  the  enormous  and  improbable  sum  of 
£5248.  15s.  Id.,  or  more  than  $300,000  of  our 
own  time.  Here  was  an  heritage  from  cen- 
turies of  mismanagement,  indeed,  but  Kirkstall 
had  a  master  at  last.  Abbot  Grimston  ruled 
twenty  years,  and  just  before  his  death  the 
returns  of  the  abbey  he  had  so  well  administered 
show  that  then  it  was  possessed  of  216  oxen, 
160  cows,  152  yearlings  and  bullocks,  90  calves, 
and  4000  sheep,  and  the  gigantic  debt  had  been 
reduced  to  .£160.  Surely  a  wonderful  record 
of  businesslike  administration:  one  would  will- 
ingly know  more  of  Abbot  Hugh,  who  so  suc- 
cessfully brought  order  out  of  chaos,  prosperity 
out  of  insolvency;  but  the  chronicles  are  silent 
as  to  his  personality,  though  unduly  full  of 
details  as  to  his  predecessor,  Turgsius  of  the 
unquenchable  tears. 

Bad  as  must  have  been  the  century  of  misrule 
for  the  unhappy  monks,  it  is  probably  to  this 
very  fact  that  we  owe  the  primitive  state  of 
Kirkstall  Abbey  and  all  it  demonstrates  as  to  the 

[204] 


KIRKSTALL 

original  form  of  the  Cistercian  type  of  church. 
The  thirteenth  century  was  the  great  period  of 
architectual  activity  on  the  part  of  this  order, 
and  during  this  period  the  monks  of  Kirkstall 
were  too  harassed  by  debts  to  think  of  adding 
to  the  glory  of  their  church,  so  to  the  end  the 
Puritanical  choir  served  them  well,  and  still 
stands  in  evidence  of  the  rigid  severity  that 
marked  Cistercianism  in  its  earliest  estate. 

Following  Abbot  Hugh  came  seven  successors, 
of  none  of  whom  is  any  notable  thing  recorded, 
and  finally  John  Ripley  came  into  his  heritage 
of  sorrow  on  the  21st  of  July,  1509.  He  sat 
for  thirty-one  years,  and  until  the  day  when 
Henry's  emissaries  demanded  the  surrender  of 
the  abbey  with  all  its  lands,  and,  the  shameful 
paper  signed  under  duress,  evicted  Abbot  Ripley 
and  his  monks  on  the  22nd  of  November,  1540. 
The  abbot  himself  was  assigned  a  pension  of 
the  equivalent  of  about  three  thousand  dollars 
per  year;  whether  he  ever  accepted  this  blood- 
money  or  not  we  do  not  know,  but  it  would 
seem  not  since  it  is  said  the  old  man  stubbornly 
refused  to  leave  the  precincts,  housing  himself 
in  a  narrow  cell  over  the  great  gate,  where  he 
lingered  until  1553,  dying  at  last  almost  within 
the  shadow  of  the  great  abbey,  now  dismantled, 
silent,  and  forlorn. 

[205] 


KIRKSTALL 

Kirkstall,  in  spite  of  Abbot  Grimston,  was 
never  a  wealthy  house,  and  at  the  Suppression 
its  net  annual  rent  roll  was  only  seventeen 
thousand  dollars.  The  lands  and  ruins  were 
granted  early  in  the  reign  of  "Saint"  Edward 
to  Cranmer  and  his  heirs,  from  whom  it  passed 
in  a  few  years  to  the  Crown,  and  was  granted 
again  to  William  Downynge  and  Peter  Ashton. 
The  Savilles  were  the  next  holders  and  from 
them  it  passed  through  the  Duke  of  Montague 
to  the  Earl  of  Cardigan,  and  finally  in  1888  was 
sold  at  public  auction,  being  purchased  by 
Colonel  North  of  Leeds  and  by  him  presented 
to  his  native  city  to  be  used  as  a  common  recrea- 
tion ground  forever. 

Sad  indeed  is  the  fate  of  Kirkstall  Abbey, 
where  so  many  generations  of  men  have  prayed 
and  toiled  and  wept  over  their  sins  and  the  un- 
ceasing blows  of  adversity,  now  contending  on 
unequal  ground  for  a  share  of  popular  interest 
with  band-stands,  ginger-pop,  and  penny-in-the- 
slot  machines.  Yet  in  spite  of  its  environment, 
in  spite  of  the  tainted  waters  of  what  was  once  a 
"delicate  river,  calm  and  clear,"  the  clanging 
trolley-car,  encroaching  ranks  of  sordid  tene- 
ments, foul  smoke  from  factory  chimneys,  and 
a  general  atmosphere  of  sporting  papers  and  the 
great  unemployed,  it  lifts  proudly  and  with 

[206] 


KIRKSTALL 

invincible  dignity  above  the  miasma  of  trium- 
phant industrialism.  Cleaning  and  tinkering 
and  the  fussing  of  careful  custodians  cannot 
destroy  its  solemn  majesty,  or  neutralize  its 
eternal  teaching  power.  In  their  wreck  and 
desolation  the  stones  preach,  even  though  the 
human  voices  that  once  sounded  within  are 
hushed  and  silent  forever. 

It  was  not  so  in  the  nineteenth  century,  per- 
haps, but  men's  ears  hear  now  much  that  was 
inaudible  then.  In  a  conscientious  work  by  a 
worthy  Professor  Phillips,  I  find  the  following 
cheerful  and  philosophical  reflections  which 
may  serve  to  show  the  curious  gulf  that  has 
opened  so  suddenly  and  unexpectedly  between 
the  last  century  and  our  own. 

"Since  the  day  when  Henry  de  Lacy  brought 
the  Cistercians  to  this  sweet  retreat,  how  changed 
are  the  scenes  which  the  river  looks  upon.  Then 
from  the  high  rocks  of  Malham  and  the  pastures 
of  Craven,  to  Loidis  in  Elmete  the  deer,  wild 
boar,  and  white  bull  were  wandering  in  unfre- 
quented woods,  or  wading  in  untainted  waters, 
or  roaming  over  boundless  heaths.  Now,  hun- 
dreds of  thousands  of  men  of  many  races  have 
extirpated  the  wood,  dyed  the  waters  with  tints 
derived  from  other  lands,  turned  the  heath  into 
fertile  fields  and  filled  the  valley  with  mills  and 

[207] 


KIRKSTALL 

looms,  water  wheels  and  engine  chimneys!  Yet 
is  not  all  the  beauty  of  Airedale  lost;  nor  should 
the  thoughtful  mind  which  now  regards  the 
busy  stream  of  the  Aire  lament  the  change.  The 
quiet  spinner  is  happier  than  the  rude  and  vio- 
lent hunter;  the  spirit  of  true  religion  fills  these 
populous  villages,  as  well  as  once  it  filled  these 
cloistered  walls:  the  woods  are  gone,  and  in 
their  place  the  iron  road;  but  the  road  conducts 
the  intelligent  lover  of  beauty  to  other  hills  and 
dales  where  art  has  had  no  contest  with  nature, 
and,  by  enabling  him  to  compare  one  region 
with  another,  corrects  his  judgment,  heightens 
his  enjoyment,  and  deepens  his  sympathy  with 
man." 

One  may  question,  perhaps,  the  accuracy  of 
the  antithesis  beween  "the  quiet  spinner"  and 
the  "rude  and  violent  hunter";  doubt  even, 
while  threading  the  devious  purlieus  of  Leeds 
through  the  smudge  of  stifling  smoke,  the  uni- 
versality of  the  contemporary  "spirit  of  true 
religion,"  but  of  the  magnificent  periods  of  the 
final  demonstration  of  the  essential  services  ren- 
dered by  "the  iron  road  "  the  exalted  truth  can 
never  be  gainsaid. 


[208] 


ST.  MARY'S  YORK 

OF  the  thousands  who  go  yearly  to  see  the 
city  of  the  northern  province  to  wonder 
at  what  is  indeed  one  of  the  noblest  of 
English  cathedrals,  how  many  realize  that  down 
by  the  river  and  just  without  the  line  of  the 
ancient  city  wall,  forgotten  in  the  gardens  of  an 
archaeological  society,  stand  the  few  scarred 
fragments  of  a  church  that,  though  an  hun- 
dred feet  shorter  than  the  "  Minster,"  was  not 
only  incomparably  more  beautiful  viewed  as 
pure  architecture,  but  was  as  well  the  most 
beautiful  church  in  England  and  one  of  the 
most  perfect  examples  of  consummate  archi- 
tecture in  the  Christian  world. 

The  fragmentary  nature  of  the  wreck  explains, 
perhaps,  the  perfect  oblivion  that  has  fallen 
upon  these  ruins;  but  at  least  one  might  give  a 
few  minutes  of  his  time  to  visiting  what  still 
remains,  if  only  in  tribute  to  the  fact  that  it 
stands  for  one  of  the  wonders  of  the  world, 
entirely  extinguished  and  wiped  out  that  the 
"  Defender  of  the  Faith"  might  acquire  an  access 

[209] 


YORK 

of  wealth  and  later  build  over  the  fields  he  had 
devastated  and  from  the  rubble  to  which  he 
had  reduced  the  most  wonderful  art  of  man  a 
shortlived  pleasure  house,  gone  now  as  utterly 
as  the  incomparable  masterpiece  so  inconti- 
nently done  to  death. 

To-day  the  Benedictine  Abbey  of  Our  Lady 
of  York,  once  the  richest  of  all  monastic  foun- 
dations in  the  north  of  England,  consists  in  the 
crumbling  wall  of  the  north  nave  aisle,  one 
tower  pier  cut  short  at  half  its  height,  a  fragment 
of  the  west  end,  and  nothing  more  whatever, 
except  a  few  stones  of  the  chapter  house  and 
such  foundations  below  the  floor  level  as  have 
been  exposed  through  the  diligence  of  the  present 
owners  of  the  ruins.  This  is  all  that  remains  in 
place,  but  fortunately  it  is  not  everything.  By 
some  whim  of  chance  an  enormous  number  of 
fragments  have  been  picked  up  here  and  there, 
dug  out  of  the  earth,  redeemed  from  walls  where 
they  have  lain  for  centuries  as  makeshift  building 
material,  traced  far  without  the  limits  of  the 
city  and  restored.  These  precious  vestiges  have 
been  gathered  together  and  now  form,  some  of 
them,  retaining  walls  and  decorative  borders  in 
the  garden,  whilst  others  are  piled  together 
pell-mell  in  the  lower  story  of  the  monastic 
guest  house,  cheek  by  jowl  with  Roman  tombs 

[210] 


YORK 

and  heathen  altars.  They  are  unique,  these 
shards  of  glory,  not  only  in  their  number,  but 
in  the  almost  unimaginable  beauty  of  their  art, 
and  they  serve  as  an  heart-breaking  hint  of  the 
inestimable  loss  the  world  has  suffered  in  the 
savage  destruction  of  one  of  its  noblest  monu- 
ments. 

The  ruin  that  overwhelmed  York  Abbey  was 
prompt,  terrible,  and  condign.  The  whole  vast 
property  with  the  dreamlike  church  and  majes- 
tic monastery  was  retained  by  the  Crown,  and 
the  fairy  buildings  themselves  were  doomed 
to  destruction  after  they  had  been  rifled  of  their 
splendid  plate,  their  hoard  of  sumptuous  em- 
broidery and  needlework,  their  stores  of  parch- 
ment and  vellum  folios  and  manuscripts.  The 
vast  conventual  buildings,  wonders  of  masterly 
architecture,  were  blown  up  and  levelled  with 
the  ground;  and  over  their  site  was  erected  a 
new  palace  for  the  king,  the  carven  stones 
being  roughly  hewn  down  to  fit  them  to  serve 
as  mere  rubble  for  the  walls.  This  palace,  or 
rather  the  major  part  of  it,  was  speedily  de- 
stroyed after  Henry  died,  and  that  which  was 
left  was  joined  to  the  abbot's  lodgings,  which 
were  largely  rebuilt  and  made  into  a  residence 
for  the  "  Lord's  President  of  the  North."  Under 
James  I.  extensive  changes  were  made,  and  again 

[211] 


YORK 

under  Charles  the  Martyr.  What  remains  has 
now  become  a  school  for  the  blind. 

In  the  meantime  the  church  itself  had  been 
left,  in  all  probability,  to  fall  slowly  into  ruin, 
such  portions  as  were  available  being  used  in  the 
various  schemes  of  royal  building  and  repara- 
tion, whilst  the  town's  folk  were  given  leave 
to  fetch  such  stones  as  they  could  drag  away  to 
aid  them  in  building  their  houses,  sheds,  and 
styes.  With  the  eighteenth  century  the  final 
raid  began:  in  1701  York  Castle,  being  in  need 
of  repairs,  levied  on  the  church  itself;  four  years 
later  the  insignificant  church  of  St.  Olave  nearby 
followed  the  same  course  and  for  the  same 
reason.  George  I.  graciously  granted  to  the 
Minster  and  to  St.  Mary's,  both  in  Beverly,  so 
much  stone  from  the  ruin  as  they  might  need 
for  their  extensive  repairs,  and  finally,  early  in 
the  nineteenth  century,  the  destruction  not  pro- 
gressing fast  enough,  lime-kilns  were  set  up,  and 
for  years  sculptured  stones  worthy  to  stand  in 
the  British  Museum  by  the  Elgin  Marbles  were 
given  to  the  fire  that  they  might  acquire  a  com- 
mercial value  when  transmuted  into  quick-lime. 

It  is  a  biting  commentary  on  the  civilization 
of  the  nineteenth  century  that  this  sacrilege  and 
vandalism  went  on  without  a  protest  until  the 
year  1827,  when  the  Yorkshire  Historical  So- 


YORK 

ciety  asked  for  and  obtained  the  site  of  the  awful 
destruction.  This  society  did  not  exhibit  an 
instant  appreciation  of  its  opportunities,  for  it 
forthwith  proceeded  to  erect  a  neat  and  elegant 
Greek  temple  over  the  ruins  of  a  portion  of  the 
fratry  and  refectory,  but  as  time  went  on  its 
eyes  were  opened  and  the  fact  became  apparent 
that  there  might  be  other  items  of  archaeological 
interest  in  ancient  Eboracum  besides  Roman 
cippi  and  the  fragments  of  pagan  altars.  The 
land  where  once  the  choir  stood  was  added  to 
the  Society's  holdings,  and  consistent  excavation 
began  with  the  result  that  a  great  store  of  won- 
derful sculpture  has  been  unearthed,  whilst 
to-day  the  entire  foundations  of  the  eastern  arm 
of  the  church,  together  with  those  of  a  small 
portion  of  the  monastic  buildings,  have  been 
exposed.  It  will  be  necessary  to  remove  the 
Society's  building  itself  before  these  excavations 
can  be  continued,  while  small  houses  that  now 
cover  the  site  of  the  chapter  house  must  also  be 
demolished.  The  older  buildings  also  of  the 
school  for  the  blind  should  be  taken  down  in 
order  that  the  material  from  the  abbey  may  be 
sorted  out  and  some  portions  perhaps  restored 
to  their  original  position. 

As  one  passes  through  the  narrow  alleys  ad- 
jacent to  the  church,  one  finds  in  every  wall 

[213] 


YORK 

stones  unquestionably  from  the  abbey  itself,  nor 
are  they  confined  to  the  immediate  vicinity;  all 
over  York  they  crop  out  in  unexpected  places, 
some  of  them  used  even  as  copings  for  garden 
walls  or  built  into  the  abutments  of  bridges. 
The  fierce  centripetal  force  of  sacrilege  and 
irreligion  has  hurled  them  wide  over  an  enor- 
mous area,  but  stone  by  stone  they  are  being 
brought  back  and  given  in  charge  of  a  Society 
conscious  at  last  of  its  sacred  trust.  As  one 
pores  over  the  scattered  fragments,  the  pas- 
sionate desire  asserts  itself  to  mark  each  broken 
stone  and  try  if  by  patient  care  it  would  not  be 
possible  to  rebuild  at  least  one  entire  bay  of  the 
nave  in  order  that  it  might  stand  as  an  ever- 
lasting monument  of  the  highest  point  reached 
by  the  Christian  builders  of  England. 

In  the  undercroft  of  the  hospitium,  as  I  have 
said,  has  already  been  gathered  together  a  mass 
of  marvellous  material.  I  do  not  like  to  criticise 
any  action  of  a  Society  that  has  shown  itself 
conscientious  and  careful,  but  I  must  submit 
that  even  now  it  is  not  fully  realized  that  these 
vestiges  of  mediaeval  art  are  infinitely  more 
precious  than  mere  classical  remains.  In  this 
same  undercroft,  piled  in  unorganized,  uniden- 
tified heaps,  black  with  the  sifting  coal-dust  of 
the  neighbouring  railway,  thirteenth,  fourteenth, 

[214] 


YORK 

and  fifteenth  century  work  all  jumbled  together 
in  dusty  chaos,  are  some  of  the  most  perfect 
examples  of  English  mediaeval  art  to  be  found 
in  any  place.  In  some  instances  the  dirt  of 
their  long  sepulture  still  clogs  the  carving  of 
caps,  bosses,  and  statues,  each  one  of  which  is 
well  worth  preservation  under  glass.  It  is  only 
by  digging  down  into  the  casual  heaps  that  one 
may  find  what  actually  exists.  In  simple  truth 
it  may  be  said  that  here  are  gathered  together 
more  precious  fragments  than  in  any  other  place 
in  England.  Let  us  realize  the  paramount 
glory  of  our  own  great  thousand  years  of  civili- 
zation, forget,  though  only  for  a  day,  the  charm 
of  our  classical  period,  and  do  a  laggard  honour 
to  the  immortal  achievement  of  our  immediate 
forbears.  From  the  architectural  fragments  now 
at  hand  and,  please  God,  soon  to  be  acquired,  it 
might  be  possible  to  restore  the  nave  order  of 
St.  Mary's  or,  if  not  that,  at  least  to  lift  some 
portions  of  the  walls  and  shafts  a  few  feet 
higher  above  the  turf.  From  the  shards  of 
sculpture  logically  arranged  and  conserved,  it 
would  be  possible  to  form  a  chronological  se- 
quence of  national  styles  out  of  examples  of 
each  period  at  its  noblest  and  best.  The  oppor- 
tunity is  glittering  in  its  possibilities;  is  there 
none  who  will  lead  the  way? 

[215] 


YORK 

It  really  seems  that  this  is  true,  the  apparently 
careless  statement  that  all  the  work  at  York  was 
of  the  best,  whatever  its  period.  Why  this 
should  be  true  is  hard  to  say,  though  we  know 
that  the  Benedictine  was  the  richest  order  in 
England  and  the  one  most  devoted  to  the  ad- 
vancement of  learning  and  art,  whilst  St.  Mary's 
was  one  of  the  richest  of  all  Benedictine  houses. 
It  would  seem  that  whenever  anything  was  done 
here  it  befel  that  it  should  be  at  the  best  possible 
time  and  that  the  Abbots  of  York  were  content 
with  no  workman  who  was  not  a  master  in  his 
own  art.  Go  down  into  the  hospitium  under- 
croft and  look  around;  it  is  impossible  to  cata- 
logue the  treasures,  but  here  is  a  tenth  century 
font  of  singular  value,  consigned  to  the  stone 
heap  at  the  recent  restoration  of  Hutton  Crans- 
wick  church,  and  fortunately  recovered;  here 
are  Anglo-Norman  doorways,  caps,  and  lintels 
from  the  old  chapter  house  of  the  abbey,  unique 
in  their  richness  and  originality.  Here  are 
scores  of  caps,  corbells,  and  vaulting  bosses, 
mostly  thirteenth  century,  wrought  in  a  fashion 
that  stops  the  breath  with  wonder  and  admira- 
tion, each  one  of  them  more  exquisite,  more 
masterly  as  absolute  art  than  any  bit  of  carven 
acanthus  or  honeysuckle  from  the  Acropolis  or 
the  Forum.  Against  the  piers  are  ten  life-size 

[216] 


YORK 

statues  of  prophets  and  evangelists,  fourteenth 
century  work,  strong  and  powerful,  a  part  of 
the  great  lines  that  once  were  ranged  rank  on 
rank  down  the  triforia  of  the  abbey  church,  once 
blazing  with  colour  and  gold,  now  ashen  after 
their  long  interment  beneath  the  ruins  of  their 
tabernacle.  Most  wonderful  of  all,  amongst  a 
horde  of  smaller  statues,  a  mutilated  fragment 
of  a  statue  of  Our  Lady  and  the  Holy  Child,  so 
consummate  in  its  faultless  art  that  it  deserves 
place  with  the  masterpieces  of  sculpture  of  every 
age  and  race.  Finally  here  are  great  pieces  of 
canopied  altars  and  sedilia  of  the  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, in  black  Derbyshire  marble  wrought  like 
fine  lace,  as  pure  in  their  cutting  as  a  Greek 
intaglio  and  marvellously  preserved,  every  line 
as  sharp  to-day  as  when  it  left  the  sculptor's 
chisel.  Here  in  this  dim  and  sooty  undercroft 
is  an  epitome  of  the  English  art  of  four  centuries, 
precious  and  beautiful  beyond  the  power  of 
words  to  describe. 

There  seems  somewhat  of  the  providential  in 
the  manner  in  which  these  things  have  been 
preserved.  There  is  unmistakable  evidence  that 
many  hands  laboured  at  the  Suppression  to  save 
a  few  vestiges  of  that  which  they  were  hired  to 
destroy.  The  triforium  statues  were  carefully 
buried  together  down  amongst  the  foundations 

[217] 


YORK 

of  the  church  and  covered  by  a  mass  of  shattered 
window  tracery  cemented  together  with  the  very 
material  used  in  the  building  of  Henry's  tran- 
sitory palace.  The  marvellous  bosses  of  the 
warming-room  had  also  been  buried  together 
in  the  same  fashion  when  the  monastery  was 
razed  to  give  place  to  the  royal  dwelling,  whilst 
the  marble  canopies  were  found  carefully  built 
into  walls  in  such  a  way  as  to  prove  they  were 
given  place  not  as  building  material  but  solely 
for  their  own  preservation  from  the  fate  that 
overtook  the  major  part  of  their  fellows,  which, 
as  Thoresby  records,  were  "sold  by  parcels  to 
statuaries  and  others  for  common  use."  There 
is  something  infinitely  pathetic  in  these  evi- 
dences of  humble  appreciation  of  a  great  art 
doomed  to  annihilation,  on  the  part  of  those 
who,  clearly  against  their  will,  were  forced  to 
be  the  instruments  of  the  destruction  of  the 
things  they  loved.  Their  names  may  never  be 
known,  the  names  of  the  poor  men  who  did 
their  best  to  save  a  statue  or  a  bit  of  lovely 
carving,  but  they  deserve  a  mass  for  their  char- 
ity and  for  their  love  that  has  proved  not  all 
in  vain.  Also,  and  more  materially,  do  they 
merit  a  more  tender  custody  of  those  things 
preserved  to  us  by  their  gentle  piety  and  their 
faithful  care. 

[218] 


YORK 

Shall  we  try  to  restore,  in  words  only,  the 
Abbey  of  Our  Lady  of  York? 

The  walls  of  the  close  rise  sheer  from  the 
river,  and  above  them  only  a  glimpse  is  seen  here 
and  there  of  pale,  vaporous  towers  emerging 
from  deep  masses  of  foliage.  Entering  the 
water-gate  and  passing  under  the  big  arch  of 
the  guest  house  we  find  ourselves  suddenly 
fronting  a  gentle  slope  that  rises  towards  what 
almost  seems  a  citadel,  so  vast  is  it  in  extent. 
The  view  is  bounded  on  either  hand  by  low 
detached  buildings,  so  that  we  are  in  a  kind  of 
vast  and  irregular  quadrangle,  the  upper  side  of 
which  is  formed  by  many  low  structures  strongly 
buttressed,  pierced  by  windows  full  of  delicate 
tracery,  rising  to  the  left  into  a  lofty  gable  rich 
with  intricate  panelling,  fretted  with  the  glim- 
mering light  and  shade  of  deeply  cut  caps  and 
bosses  and  crocketing,  and  decked  with  many 
statues.  Above  all,  crowning  the  composition 
and  tying  it  all  into  an  aspiring  pryamid,  lifts  a 
single  lofty  tower  with  its  lance-like  spire  flashing 
in  the  sky.  Here  in  a  world  of  green  trees  and 
greener  turf  rises  a  thing  like  clouds  and  sea 
mists,  a  mystical  presence  commingled  of  fire 
and  snow,  for  it  is  all  of  pearly  white  stone, 
marble  in  all  but  name,  that  has  softened  into 
a  silvery  radiance  in  its  exposed  parts,  while  the 

[219] 


YORK 

hollows  of  arch  and  cap  and  archivolt  have 
deepened  into  a  golden  ivory  that  glows  here 
and  there  as  deep  as  amber.  This  is  no  fortress 
shrine  of  granite  or  ruddy  freestone  or  harsh 
black  flints;  it  is  a  wonderful  vision  of  the  New 
Jerusalem  compact  of  alabaster  and  mother-of- 
pearl.  Pure,  crystalline,  gleaming  like  sea  foam, 
it  is  a  vision,  not  an  actuality  in  time  and  space. 

In  the  base  of  the  wall  is  a  single  door;  pause 
long  enough  to  note  the  almost  passionate  carv- 
ing of  the  vines  that  creep  up  the  hollows  be- 
hind the  shafts  and  at  the  top  spring  suddenly 
outward  to  wreathe  themselves  into  involved 
capitals;  no  more  lovely  carving  than  this  can 
be  found  in  Athens  or  far  Cathay;  if  it  should 
perish  now,  if  by  some  terrible  tragedy  it  were 
to  be  calcined  by  fire  or  worn  by  wind  and 
rain,  what  would  not  the  world  lose  ? 

We  enter:  at  first  nothing  is  visible  except  a 
kind  of  wash  of  palpitating  colour,  back  and 
forth  between  enclosing  walls,  then,  little  by 
little  we  are  able  to  establish  ourselves,  for  de- 
tails are  taking  form  in  the  luminous  dusk.  We 
are  standing  in  the  lay-brothers'  church,  the  six 
westernmost  bays  of  the  nave;  the  great  rood 
screen  closes  the  view  to  the  east  up  as  high  as 
the  spring  of  the  aisle  arches,  but  above  all  is 
open  and  the  eye  pierces  on  and  on  past  the 

[220] 


YORK 

gigantic  Calvary  flashing  with  colour  and  gold, 
through  slanting  lines  of  myriad-coloured  light 
from  the  clerestory  windows,  until  it  centres-on 
the  eastern  wall  that  is  as  though  it  were  wrought 
of  precious  stones  Aladdin  himself  could  not 
replace.  For  eight  wide  bays  the  delicately 
chiselled  shafts  with  their  soaring  arches  march 
towards  the  great  and  lofty  arches  of  the  tower, 
and  beyond  they  begin  again  and  continue  for 
nine  more  bays,  three  hundred  and  eighty  feet 
in  clear  length,  the  whole  wrought  of  the  pale 
stone  that  here  has  softened  to  the  hues  of  old 
ivory.  The  great  vault  branches  and  curves 
above,  the  natural  colour  of  the  stone  almost  hid- 
den by  an  embroidery  of  colour  and  gold,  from 
the  midst  of  which  glow  proud  heraldic  achieve- 
ments, gules  and  azure  and  or.  Down  the  tri- 
forium  arcade  are  ranged  countless  figures  of 
saints  and  prophets,  painted,  all  of  them,  and 
bright  with  burnished  gilding,  while  the  colour 
of  the  vault  creeps  down  over  arch  and  wall 
until  the  whole  church  is  one  wonder  of  ivory 
stone  and  all  the  hues  of  the  blossoming  fields, 
the  metallic  iridescence  of  butterflies'  wings. 

Brilliant  though  it  is,  —  no  half  tones,  no 
timorous  tertiaries,  —  the  eighty-six  windows  of 
clerestory  and  aisle  with  the  four  vast  openings 
in  nave,  choir,  and  transepts,  all  filled  with 

[221] 


YORK 

painted  glass  smouldering  with  ardent  fire  on 
the  south  and  west,  cool  with  the  myriad  hues 
of  sunrise  mists  on  the  north  and  east,  throw  ten 
thousand  pencils  of  living  light  across  the  still 
air  where  smoke-films  of  incense  still  curl  and 
linger,  blending  all  in  one  resonant  chord  of  full 
colour  that  is  like  music  in  its  poignancy. 

Enter  the  south  aisle  and,  footing  the  pavement 
of  brilliant  tiles,  go  down  to  the  transept.  Here 
to  the  south  the  sun  pours  full  through  the  great 
window  forty  feet  in  clear  height,  a  tide  of  living 
light  that  breaks  against  the  fretted  screen  of 
the  monks'  choir.  To  the  left  opens  out  all  the 
wonder  and  mystery  of  the  crossing,  the  Titan 
shafts  like  sheaves  of  giant  spears  rising  to  the 
four  huge  arches  wrought  into  subtle  curves  and 
hollows,  the  shadowy  transept  stretching  far 
away  into  silvery  mist  dyed  with  the  carmine  and 
silver  and  ultramarine  of  the  storied  windows. 
To  the  east,  under  two  of  the  arches,  are  little 
chapels,  each  with  its  altar  decked  with  richest 
needlework,  each  with  its  golden  candlesticks, 
its  fresh  cut  flowers,  its  reredos  of  chiselled  stone 
or  gilded  wood,  thick  with  statues  of  vested 
saints,  and  voiceful  with  emblems  and  symbols 
of  the  Redemption. 

The  third  arch  gives  on  the  processional  aisle 
stretching  far  away  to  the  east,  and  here,  as  also 

[222] 


YORK 

in  the  transept,  are  myriad  tombs  and  shrines, 
and  memorial  brasses  in  the  tiled  floor.  Here  is 
a  bishop's  tomb  wrought  of  alabaster,  the  effigy 
of  my  lord  himself  stretched  on  the  top,  mitre  on 
head,  cope  decently  folded  by  his  side,  a  jewelled 
crozier  prone  along  his  arm.  Here  lies  a  car- 
dinal, his  tomb  thick  set  with  glimmering  mo- 
saic, his  red  hat  hanging  from  the  vault  above, 
the  silken  tassels  waving  slightly  in  some  breath 
that  strays  in  from  an  open  door.  Here  a  knight 
and  his  lady  sleep  in  a  common  tomb,  a  great 
sword  and  an  helmet,  black  now  with  years, 
suspended  above. 

You  must  walk  justly  here,  for  the  tombs  are 
very  many  and  each  is  as  beautiful  as  it  is  given 
to  man  to  fashion.  Farther  to  the  east  we  find 
altars  against  the  terminal  wall,  every  one  some 
masterpiece  of  art,  with  votive  candles  and 
flickering  lamps  burning  always  before  them. 
The  north  aisle  is  as  the  south,  and  the  north 
transept  as  well,  except  that  here  is  the  altar  of 
Our  Lady,  most  beautiful,  most  marvellous  of 
all.  Enter  the  doorway  in  the  screen  of  the 
choir.  Thus  far  all  has  been  in  a  way  without 
the  pale,  here  we  approach  the  centre  of  all 
things.  The  slender  shafts,  the  curling  arches, 
arcade,  triforium,  clerestory,  and  vault,  are  the 
same:  ivory,  gold,  and  pulsating  colour;  but  here 

[223] 


YORK 

all  is  enclosed  by  the  choir  stalls  of  oak,  each 
shaded  by  its  canopy,  a  miracle  of  marvellous 
fashioning,  carven,  inlaid,  picked  out  with  colour 
and  gold,  an  ordered  jungle  of  intricate  foliation 
that  balks  the  imagination  with  its  revelation  of 
the  powers  of  man  when  these  are  used  in  the 
service  of  God.  Side  by  side,  scores  of  them  in 
all,  they  stand  ranged  in  order  away  to  the  east, 
where  they  give  place  to  fellows  of  finely  wrought 
marble,  spired,  pinnacled,  charged  with  bright 
coats  of  arms  and  the  deceitful  semblance  of  all 
the  flowers  of  the  field.  Here  the  stalls  are 
backed  and  cushioned  with  silk  brocade ;  blazing 
banners  of  rich  needlework,  banners  both  mar- 
tial and  ecclesiastical,  hang  above  and  cast  long 
shadows  over  the  tombs  of  bishops,  abbots,  and 
the  great  of  earth,  tombs  that  are  set  thick  with 
little  statues,  each  in  its  canopied  niche,  proud 
with  the  martial  array  of  ancient  escutcheons,  or 
draped,  some  of  them,  with  splendid  palls  of 
wonderful  needlework  that  cost  the  labour  of 
twenty  hands  for  half  that  number  of  years. 

And  what  shall  we  say  of  the  high  altar  and 
its  reredos?  Go  to  Winchester;  look  on  what 
is  there,  rising  forty  feet  and  more  sheer  from 
the  pavement  and  reaching  from  wall  to  wall, 
then  imagine  this  flickering  with  burnished  gold 
and  blazing  with  pigments,  fronted  with  great 

[224] 


Malmsbury — The  Norman  Door. 


YORK 

gold  candlesticks,  flanked  by  others  of  bronze 
and  ivory,  with  silver  lamps  hanging  in  front 
like  so  many  flame-bearing  angels,  and  you 
may  have  some  idea  of  what  once  was  in  this 
place. 

We  may  go  into  the  cathedrals  still  left  us 
and  from  their  bare  stone  shafts  and  vaults, 
their  few  defaced  tombs,  dusty  and  faded,  their 
tall  windows  where  spaces  of  wonderful  colour 
still  remain  surrounded  by  dead  fields  of  plain 
glass,  their  few  and  cheerless  altars  shorn  of 
all  colour  save  that  of  a  frontal,  it  may  be,  gain 
some  pale,  inadequate  idea  of  what  once  was  be- 
fore the  days  of  Henry  the  Scourge  of  England, 
but  nowhere  can  we  find  a  hint  of  the  unspeak- 
able glory  that  once  characterized  cathedral  and 
abbey,  when  colour,  apotheosized,  covered  them 
like  the  vesture  of  kings,  and  the  oblations  and 
memorials  of  a  thousand  years  filled  them  with 
the  wonders  of  art  and  with  haunting  memories. 

But  the  real  glory  of  York  Abbey  lay,  not  in 
its  accessories  of  glass  and  sculpture  and  carving, 
tapestry,  brocade,  and  needlework  and  all  the 
artifice  of  the  goldsmith,  the  jeweller,  and  the 
scribe,  but  in  the  singular  and  quite  consummate 
nature  of  its  architecture.  Founded  just  after 
the  Conquest,  by  the  monks  of  Evesham  under 
the  protection  of  Earl  Percy,  the  abbey  was 

[225] 


YORK 

altogether  rebuilt  in  its  final  form  by  the  great 
Abbot  Simon  of  Warwick  who  ruled  for  forty 
years,  viz.,  from  1259  until  1299.  During  these 
years  the  first  epoch  of  Gothic  mounted  to  its 
zenith,  and  York  Abbey  stood  as  the  crowning 
achievement  of  the  style.  From  this  wonderful 
work  every  hint  of  Norman  and  every  trace  of 
French  influence  had  disappeared.  Of  the  hard 
mechanism  of  Salisbury  no  suggestion  is  visible, 
while  the  grave  and  almost  ponderous  majesty 
of  Whitby  and  Rievaulx  had  given  place  to  a 
wonderful  lightness  and  spaciousness.  It  may 
almost  be  called  transitional,  for  it  shows  the  first 
movings  of  the  spirit  of  the  fourteenth  century 
and  so  may  claim  kin  not  only  with  the  "Nine 
Altars"  of  Fountains  and  Durham,  but  with 
Gisburgh  as  well.  If  it  failed  at  any  point  it 
was  in  its  west  front,  the  remains  of  which, 
except  for  the  greater  arches,  indicate  a  certain 
hardness  and  mechanical  quality  curiously  sug- 
gestive of  Salisbury  and  strongly  out  of  harmony 
with  all  that  is  within.  I  am  almost  inclined  to 
assign  to  this  west  front  a  date  fifty  years  earlier 
than  that  given  to  Abbot  Warwick's  work,  as 
though  a  new  front  had  been  built  for  the  ancient 
church  before  the  great  rebuilding  of  1270  was 
begun,  and  that  this  front  when  overtaken  later 
by  Warwick's  masterpiece  was  incorporated 

[236] 


YORK 

therein  and  only  partially  changed,  chiefly  by 
the  insertion  of  new  windows  and  doors. 

In  spite  of  minor  criticisms,  however,  the  fact 
remains  that  the  destruction  of  York  Abbey 
meant  the  elimination  not  only  of  one  of  the 
most  beautiful  buildings  in  the  world,  but  also 
the  obliteration  of  a  page  in  English  architec- 
tural history  we  can  ill  spare.  Sure,  serene,  com- 
petent, perfect  in  its  proportions,  exquisitely 
organized,  marked  by  subtleties  of  design  in  the 
sections  of  piers,  the  arrangement  of  mouldings, 
the  placing  and  modelling  of  ornament,  a  perfect 
type  of  sound,  strong,  and  sensitive  English 
Gothic,  York  Abbey  was  a  national  monument 
the  aesthetic  and  historical  value  of  which  was 
beyond  computation.  It  is  with  feelings  of 
horror  and  unutterable  dismay  that,  as  we  stand 
beside  the  few  existing  fragments,  realizing  the 
irreparable  loss  they  make  so  clear,  we  call  into 
mind  Henry's  sacrilege  in  the  sixteenth  century 
and  his  silly  palace  doomed  to  instant  destruc- 
tion, the  crass  ignorance  and  stolidity  of  the 
eighteenth  century  with  its  grants  of  building 
material,  and  the  mercenary  savagery  of  the 
nineteenth  century  when  from  smoking  lime- 
kilns rose  into  the  air  the  vanishing  ghosts  of 
the  noblest  creations  that  owe  their  existence  to 
the  hands  of  man. 

[227] 


YORK 

The  tale  of  St.  Mary's  Abbey  ends  on  the 
26th  day  of  November  1539,  when  William 
Dent,  twenty-ninth  and  last  abbot,  surrendered 
the  glory  of  Yorkshire  into  the  hands  of  Crum- 
well,  at  which  time  there  were  fifty  monks  on 
the  rolls,  one  hundred  and  fifty  lay  brothers  and 
servants,  and  a  great  number  of  families  depend- 
ent on  the  abbey  for  their  maintenance.  At 
this  time  the  annual  revenues  amounted  to  some- 
thing over  one  hundred  thousand  dollars. 


[228] 


MALMESBURY 

IN  writing  of  England's  abbeys  it  has  been 
my  intention  expressly  to  exclude  those  that 
are  now  "in  commission"  in  any  sort, 
whether  as  cathedrals  or  as  parish  churches, 
leaving  these  for  study  perhaps  at  some  future 
time.  It  might  seem  that  this  rule  should  ex- 
clude Malmesbury,  St.  Aldhelm's  first  Benedic- 
tine foundation  in  Wiltshire,  but  a  chance  visit 
to  its  desolate  site  proved  that  such  exclusion 
was  quite  unnecessary.  Roofed  in  and  enclosed 
is  a  part  of  the  nave  indeed;  a  makeshift  "  Com- 
munion Table"  is  posited  against  a  roughly 
plastered  wall ;  heavy  pews  clog  its  narrow  area, 
and  stove  funnels  thrust  themselves  through 
traceried  windows,  some  of  which  are  filled  with 
crude  stained  glass,  while  there  are  other  in- 
stances of  occasional  and  mechanical  use,  but 
these  things  are  so  manifestly  a  mere  matter  of 
legal  formality  they  enhance  the  wreck  of  glory 
rather  than  mitigate  it. 

Malmesbury  is  a  ruin,  no  less  in  its  spiritual 
than  in  its  structural  aspect.  Once  a  vast  erec- 
tion, three  hundred  and  thirty-two  feet  long, 

[229] 


MALMESBURY 

with  a  nave  of  nine  bays,  a  great  crossing,  and 
a  choir  of  five  bays,  all  crowded  with  altars, 
screens,  and  tombs,  and  none  too  large  for  the 
scores  of  monks  and  conversi  and  faithful  lay- 
men, it  is  now  a  mutilated  stump  of  six  nave 
bays,  terminating  at  either  end  in  brute  walls 
of  cheap  masonry.  The  wonderful  fifteenth 
century  rood  screen  is  gone,  its  place  taken  by 
a  blind  wall  of  plaster.  Gone  are  the  twelve 
altars  of  richest  workmanship;  and  in  their 
place  is  a  thing  like  a  small  packing  box  covered 
with  grey  canvas,  railed  in  by  a  kind  of  high 
fence,  with  two  big  square  footstools  or  "otto- 
mans, "  one  at  the  south  end,  one  at  the  north 
of  the  "Table,"  and  flanking  all  a  huge  crude 
chair  covered  with  red  reps  on  either  hand.  A 
Brobdignagian  eye,  like  some  secret  society 
symbol,  is  coarsely  painted  on  the  east  wall,  with 
a  frame  containing  the  Commandments  on  one 
side  and  a  second  with  the  Lord's  Prayer  (or 
maybe  the  "forbidden  degrees,"  I  do  not  quite 
remember,  but  the  connotation  of  the  place 
would  suggest  the  latter)  on  the  other.  Not  a 
candlestick,  vase,  flower,  or  even  cross  appears 
to  indicate  the  nature  of  the  crash-covered 
packing  box;  the  dust  of  ages  lies  in  the  red- 
druggeted  "  Sanctuary,"  and  all  is  forlorn,  miser- 
able, neglected. 

[230] 


MALMESBURY 

Never  have  I  seen  such  evidences  of  dull 
indifferentism  and  spiritual  death.  All  around 
are  the  tottering  fragments  of  shattered  majesty, 
preaching  the  faith  and  devotion  that  once  ren- 
dered the  enormous  church  all  too  small,  now 
a  moiety  thereof  is  ample,  and  well  it  may  be; 
for  the  dull  horror  of  the  place  is  so  repellent 
it  is  impossible  to  imagine  taking  part  in  the 
worship  of  God  in  such  an  environment. 

Curiously  enough,  and  as  though  by  some 
singular  mercy,  it  became  necessary  for  us  to 
hurry  across  country  from  Wiltshire  into  Oxford- 
shire; we  arrived  in  the  evening  at  a  little  town 
of  which,  through  deep  ignorance,  we  knew 
nothing  except  that  it  contained  an  old  Augus- 
tinian  priory  that  was  still  in  use.  Finding  a 
lodging  for  the  night  near  its  low  walls,  we  in- 
quired of  the  landlady  if  the  church  were  open 
at  that  hour.  She  looked  at  us  with  some  sur- 
prise and  replied  "Certainly,  Sir,  there'll  be 
festival  vespers  there  in  an  half  hour  for  to- 
morrow is  Corpus  Christi,  when  there  will  be  a 
sung  mass  at  eight."  Greatly  marvelling,  and 
bearing  in  mind  that  which  we  had  seen  in 
Malmesbury,  we  entered  the  church  to  the  sound 
of  summoning  bells,  and  found  ourselves  in  a 
gaunt,  ascetic  place,  casual  and  irregular  in 
plan,  bearing  many  marks  of  former  desecration, 

[231] 


MALMESBURY 

but  still  a  church  of  God,  no  less.  An  high  altar 
covered  with  flowers  and  candles  gleamed  in 
the  chancel,  and  by  some  magic  minor  altars 
filled  the  side  chapels,  while  little  shrines,  each 
with  its  flowers  and  hanging  lamp,  were  fastened 
to  the  columns  of  the  nave.  Statues,  banners, 
sanctuary  lamps,  the  faint  odour  of  old  incense, 
all  told  their  grateful  tale.  The  people  gathered, 
the  bell  ceased,  and  presently  a  long  procession 
of  priests  in  cassocks,  scholars  in  gowns  (amongst 
whom  we  noticed  a  perfectly  black  negro) 
entered,  passed  to  the  Lady  chapel  on  the  right, 
chanted  antiphonally  the  first  vespers  of  the 
festival,  and  departed.  At  eight  the  next  morn- 
ing there  was  a  "sung  mass"  indeed,  with  all 
the  adjuncts  of  a  devout  congregation,  blazing 
lights,  rich  vestments,  incense,  and  all  the  splen- 
did old  ceremonial  so  compelling,  so  convincing 
of  the  "historic  continuity"  on  which  we  so 
often  lay  stress  in  words.  What  had  we  found  ?" 
Simply  a  parish  church  in  charge  of  a  missionary 
college.  And  in  these  antitheses,  in  Malmes- 
bury  and  in  Dorchester,  we  found  as  well  a  liv- 
ing evidence  of  the  old  that  is  passing  away, 
the  new-old  that  happily  is  taking  its  place. 

It  is  somewhat  unusual  however  to  find  in 
the  hoary  old  abbeys  that  have  been  preserved 
for  public  worship,  in  whole  or  in  part,  the 


MALMESBURY 

degree  of  perfect  restoration  to  the  older  modes 
we  found  in  the  tiny  Oxfordshire  village.  Usually 
the  standard  approaches  more  nearly  to  that  of 
the  lamentable  Malmesbury,  though  in  a  most 
glorious  old  abbey  in  the  south,  Romsey,  of 
immortal  tradition,  the  Dorchester  type  was  in 
full  evidence,  with  splendid  altars,  perfect  ac- 
cessories, and  a  constant  sequence  of  services 
from  morning  until  night.  Shrines  like  these 
hearten  one  mightily  after  sad  experiences  in 
such  contrasting  places  as  desolate  York  Cathe- 
dral and  poor  pathetic  old  Malmesbury. 

And  so  we  must  count  the  latter  as  amongst 
the  ruined  and  deserted  abbeys  of  Great  Britain. 
It  is  a  melancholy  fact  that  this  should  be  so, 
for  in  its  history  and  its  architectural  quality  it 
called  for  a  happier  fate.  Almost  thirteen  cen- 
turies ago  the  hill  of  Ingelborne  Castle  was 
consecrated  to  religious  uses  by  Maeldulph, 
a  Scottish  hermit  and  philosopher,  who,  driven 
from  the  North  by  the  harassing  of  robbers  and 
pirates,  built  himself  here  a  cell  and  gathered 
around  him  a  little  group  of  devoted  scholars. 
And  the  studious  atmosphere  thus  early  brought 
to  Malmesbury  never  departed  for  the  space 
of  nine  hundred  years,  when  it  was  very  effec- 
tually exterminated  by  the  first  English  "De- 
fender of  the  Faith  "  and  gave  place  to  the  weav- 

[233] 


MALMESBURY 

ing  of  cloth.  St.  Aldhelm,  the  pious  and  learned 
monk  and  Bishop  of  the  West  Saxons,  master 
of  Greek,  Latin,  and  Saxon  letters,  master  of 
oratory,  master  of  music,  was  the  founder  of  the 
Benedictine  monastery  whose  ruins  have  fallen 
into  such  sorry  case,  and  was  buried  here  after 
his  long  and  wonderful  life  on  earth  had  come 
to  an  end.  The  devout  King  Athelstan  with 
his  cousins  Elwin  and  Ethelwyne  found  sepulture 
within  its  walls.  Duns  Scotus,  the  witty  Scot, 
William  of  Malmesbury,  the  great  chronicler, 
Elmer,  the  monastic  Icarus  who  made  for  him- 
self a  certain  flying  machine,  on  the  first  essay 
of  which  he  fell  "and  brake  both  his  legs," 
were  all  identified  with  this  place.  Early  in 
the  thirteenth  century  Malmesbury  had  its 
own  "hostel"  in  Oxford,  and  for  hundreds 
of  years  thereafter  a  steady  stream  of  students 
went  down  to  the  University  from  the  great 
Malmesbury  schools.  Some  indication  of  the 
high  value  set  on  university  degrees  is  obtained 
from  one  record  that  tells  how  in  1298  a  Bene- 
dictine monk  from  Gloucester  on  taking  his  de- 
gree of  D.D.  at  Oxford  "was  attended  by  the 
whole  of  his  convent  from  Gloucester,  the  Abbots 
of  Westminster,  Evesham,  Abingdon,  Reading, 
and  Malmesbury,  and  an  hundred  noblemen 
and  esquires  on  horses  richly  caparisoned." 

[234] 


MALMESBURY 

What  the  library  must  have  been  we  can  only 
surmise  from  certain  terrible  details  of  its  total 
destruction.  That  it  was  vast  and  magnificent, 
even  for  the  Middle  Ages,  we  know.  For  four 
hundred  years  the  monks  had  laboured  in  scrip- 
torium and  "carel"  translating,  engrossing, 
illuminating,  and  binding  their  wonderful  works 
in  tooled  and  gilded  and  jewelled  covers.  Fuller 
testifies  that  "the  English  monks  were  bookish 
themselves,  and  much  inclined  to  hoard  up 
monuments  of  learning."  Of  no  house  was 
this  so  true  as  of  Malmesbury.  At  Ramsay,  a 
smaller  monastery,  there  were  for  choir  use 
about  seventy  breviaries,  one  hundred  psalters 
and  hymnals,  thirty-two  graduals,  thirty-nine 
processionals.  The  number  of  copies  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures,  theological  books,  and  works 
on  law,  history,  and  grammar,  together  with 
volumes  of  the  Greek  and  Latin  classics  must 
have  made  up  a  huge  library.  This  was  de- 
stroyed even  to  the  last  folio,  and  wilfully. 
Aubrey  writes  of  the  terrible  tragedy:  "In  my 
grandfather's  day  the  MSS.  flew  about  like 
butterflies.  All  musick  bookes,  account  bookes, 
copie  bookes,  etc.,  were  covered  with  old  MSS. 
and  the  glovers  at  Malmesbury  made  great 
havock  of  them;  and  gloves  were  wrapped  up, 
no  doubt,  in  many  good  pieces  of  antiquity 

[235] 


MALMESBURY 

Mr.  W.  Stumpe,"  —  the  great  grandson  of  the 
clothier  who  had  purchased  the  dismantled 
abbey  more  than  a  century  before  —  "had 
several  MSS.  of  the  abbey  and  when  be  brewed 
a  barrell  of  speciall  ale  his  use  was  to  stop  the 
bunghole  under  the  clay  with  a  sheet  of 
the  MS."  * 

From  another  source  we  learn  that  years  after 
the  Suppression  a  traveller  passing  through  the 
town  found  that  even  the  bakers  had  not  con- 
sumed all  the  abbey  books  in  heating  their 
ovens,  whilst  he  saw  many  broken  windows 
patched  up  with  the  remants  of  the  most  valu- 
able manuscripts  on  vellum.  The  loss  in  this 
direction  alone  has  been  incalcuable,  irreparable, 
and  final,  not  only  from  a  literary  and  historical 
standpoint  but  from  that  of  art  as  well,  for  it 
must  be  remembered  that  these  hundreds  of 
thousands  of  volumes  that  went  to  feed  bakery 
fires  and  stop  bungholes  in  ale  casks  were  each 
and  all  of  them  the  result  of  years  of  devoted 
labour,  and  as  such,  works  of  the  most  precious 
art,  exquisitely  engrossed  on  vellum,  embellished 
with  delicate  illumination,  and  bound  in  covers 
sometimes  of  solid  gold  or  silver,  wonderfully 
wrought,  and  studded  with  jewels. 

After   reading  the   pitiful   narratives   of  the 

*  Aubrey:  "  The  Natural  History  of  Wiltshire." 
[236] 


MALMESBURY 

destruction  of  such  monastic  libraries  as  this 
at  Malmesbury,  one  can  hardly  wonder  how  it 
was  that  in  the  first  years  following  the  Suppres- 
sion "whole  ships  full"  of  manuscripts  on  vel- 
lum and  parchment  "  were  sent  over  seas  to  the 
bookbinders"  and  yet  that  enough  remained 
for  local  consumption  for  generations.  The 
"Revival  of  Learning"  was  manifesting  itself 
at  last  in  its  true  colours,  though  after  a  some- 
what unexpected  fashion. 

Centre  of  learning  that  it  was,  Malmesbury 
Abbey,  with  the  exception  of  the  abbot's  lodg- 
ings and  stables,  was  by  the  "King's  Magesty" 
as  recorded  in  the  "Survey"  in  the  Augmenta- 
tion office  "  deemed  to  be  superfluous,  appointed 
to  be  razed  and  sold."  The  entire  monastery 
with  its  gardens,  orchards,  and  park  were  pur- 
chased, however,  in  one  lot  by  a  certain  "William 
Stumpe,  clothier,"  for  a  sum  so  out  of  propor- 
tion to  the  ordinary  market  rates  of  the  time 
for  this  kind  of  commodity  that  one  suspects 
there  must  be  some  mistake.  The  price  is 
recorded  as  £1117,  15s.  lid.,  rather  more  than 
thirty  thousand  dollars  to-day,  which,  for  the 
time,  was  a  good  deal  to  pay  for  a  lot  of  useless 
buildings  that  would  cost  perhaps  two  million 
dollars  if  the  attempt  were  made  to  reproduce 
them  to-day  to  serve  as  a  particularly  glorious 

[237] 


MALMESBURY 

and  majestic  type  of  cathedral.  Mr.  Stumpe 
was  farseeing,  however;  the  extinction  of  the 
great  abbey  left  the  people  without  spiritual 
ministrations  of  any  kind,  and,  feeling  at  first 
the  need  of  these  (custom  dying  but  slowly), 
they  induced  the  clothier  to  sell  them  the  nave 
of  the  abbey  to  use  as  a  parish  church.  The 
conventual  buildings  and  the  more  sacred  parts 
of  the  abbey  were  turned  into  a  mill  for  the 
weaving  of  cloth  under  Mr.  Stumpe's  directions, 
tenements  for  his  mill  hands  were  erected  over 
the  gardens  and  orchards,  new  streets  were  cut 
through  the  precincts,  and  altogether  it  would 
seem  that  the  thrifty  citizen  was  probably  by 
way  of  making  a  good  thing  of  his  investment. 
Whether  he  did  or  not  we  do  not  know,  but  in 
any  case  his  fortune  was  not  of  a  permanent 
type,  his  direct  descendants  being  on  record 
as  common  labourers  in  Malmesbury  early  in 
the  nineteenth  century. 

After  the  death  of  Mr.  Stumpe,  the  conventual 
buildings  were,  of  course,  turned  into  a  stone 
quarry.  In  1650  Aubrey  speaks  of  fine  frag- 
ments still  remaining,  but  to-day  not  a  sign  is 
left,  except  the  abbot's  lodgings,  which  have 
been  rebuilt  and  now  serve  as  an  imposing  and 
beautiful  private  house.  The  utter  wreck  of 
the  church  itself  dates  from  comparatively 

[238] 


MALMESBURY 

recent  times.  There  was  formerly  at  the  cross- 
ing a  great  central  tower  "with  a  mighty  high 
pyramis,  a  mark  to  all  the  country  about," 
twenty  feet  higher  than  the  spire  of  Salisbury. 
This  "pyramis'*  fell  shortly  before  the  Sup- 
pression but  without  injuring  the  tower  itself 
or  any  portion  of  the  walls  of  the  church.  At 
the  time  of  the  Great  Rebellion  the  whole  fabric 
was  comparatively  complete  though  of  course 
only  the  nave  was  in  use,  while  the  spire  had 
gone,  and  a  portion  of  the  west  front.  Malmes- 
bury  held  loyally  to  the  King  and  was  furiously 
bombarded  by  Cromwell,  as  a  result  of  which 
the  western  bays  of  the  nave  fell  down  and  the 
tower  was  further  weakened.  On  Restoration 
Day,  1660,  the  tower  collapsed  owing  to  "so 
many  volleys  of  shot  loyally  fired"  and  appar- 
ently the  abbey  was  then  reduced  to  the  present 
mutilated  stump,  every  vestige  of  choir,  transept, 
and  tower  being  swept  away  except  the  great 
arch  to  the  nave  and  that  to  the  north  transept. 

Since  then  the  abbreviated  trunk,  shorn  of 
its  towers,  choir,  transepts,  chapels,  and  west 
front,  has  stood  a  forlorn  reminder  of  happier 
and  more  pious  days;  within  the  last  few  years 
something  has  been  done  towards  a  kind  of 
restoration,  but  the  direction  taken  by  these 
laudable  efforts  is  somewhat  startling,  though 

[239] 


MALMESBURY 

unquestionably  significant.  One  would  have 
thought,  perhaps,  that  funds  would  have  been 
expended  towards  the  east,  the  south  and  east 
arches  of  the  tower  rebuilt  and  temporarily 
enclosed,  thus  presenting  a  decent  chancel  where 
might  have  been  erected  an  altar,  respectful  at 
least,  and  reverent,  even  though  simple  and 
unmarked  by  the  connotations  of  "Puseyism." 
But  no,  the  packing  box  within  its  painted 
fence  and  beneath  the  secret-society  emblem 
was  enough  to  meet  the  law,  so  the  money  sub- 
scribed went  to  the  rebuilding  two  of  the  bays 
of  the  south  wall  of  the  nave  that  had  been 
thrown  down  by  Cromwell's  artillery.  Of  course 
these  bays  lay  quite  without  the  enclosure  of 
the  present  church;  they  were  simply  a  replica- 
tion of  the  other  bays  of  the  nave;  they  could 
serve  no  purpose,  devotional  or  architectural. 
Why  they  should  have  been  chosen  for  restora- 
tion is  a  question  beyond  solution,  unless  it  was 
that  being  towards  the  town  their  absence  caused 
a  shocking  gap  in  the  visible  wall,  while,  rebuilt, 
they  would  enhance  the  neatness  and  respect- 
ability of  the  common  prospect.  Well,  ideals 
change  and  incumbents  also.  Which  is  to  blame 
for  the  present  shocking  state  of  Malmesbury? 
I  do  not  know,  but  let  us  hope  the  time  will 
come  when  the  rebuilding  of  the  abbey  will 

[240] 


Malmsbury — The  Nave  that  Oliver  Cromwell  wrecked. 


MALMESBURY 

begin  afresh  and  towards  the  east,  so  that  the 
future  pilgrims  may  not  be  scandalized  by  the 
evidences  of  archaeological  interest  in  combi- 
nation with  religious  indifferentism. 

The  holy  hill  of  Malmesbury  has  known  many 
churches,  several  of  them  standing  grouped 
together  when  the  vast  shrine  of  St.  Aldhelm, 
the  remains  of  which  still  exist,  first  came  into 
being.  The  first  little  wooden  church  of  St. 
Maeldulph,  built  in  637,  was  still  standing,  as 
was  also  the  finer  stone  church  erected  by  St. 
Aldhelm  himself.  William  of  Malmesbury,  who 
died  in  1112,  declares  it  then  to  have  been  su- 
perior in  size  and  beauty  to  any  ancient  church 
in  England.  It  was  in  this  church  that  King 
Athelstan  and  his  line  found  sepulture.  Two 
other  churches,  the  one  dedicated  to  Our  Lady, 
the  other  to  St.  Michael,  stood  close  at  hand, 
St.  Aldhelm's  tomb  in  St.  Mary's,  St.  Mael- 
dulph's  in  St.  Michael's.  Yet  a  fifth  church, 
built  for  the  use  of  the  townspeople,  was  dedi- 
cated to  St.  Andrew,  and  in  this  were  buried 
the  exiled  Greek  archbisop,  Constantine,  and, 
for  a  time,  Abbot  Brithwald  II.,  fourteenth  in 
succession.  Unfortunately  for  him,  however, 
his  tomb  was  so  haunted  by  "fantastic  shadows" 
that  the  townspeople  rebelled  and,  breaking  open 
the  tomb,  cast  the  unquiet  ashes  into  a  distant 

[241] 


MALMESBURY 

marsh.  Whereupon  peace  descended  upon  St. 
Andrew's  once  more.  Finally,  towards  the  end 
of  the  eleventh  century,  the  great  abbey  was 
begun,  either  under  Turold,  a  monk  of  Fecamp, 
or  Godfrey  of  Jumieges,  the  student  and  creator 
of  the  enormous  library  that  was  sometime  to 
become  the  pride  of  English  monasticism. 

As  then  laid  out,  St.  Aldhelm's  remained  to 
the  end,  but  above  the  triforium  level  many 
changes  took  place  through  the  succeeding  cen- 
turies. Probably  the  work  progressed  slowly 
down  to  the  middle  of  the  twelfth  century;  it  is 
all  a  heavy,  rich  and  massive  type  of  transitional 
Norman,  with  enormous  circular  piers,  bluntly 
pointed  arches,  and  vaulting  shafts  resting  on 
the  pier-caps.  In  the  fourteenth  century  a 
great  transformation  took  place,  though  under 
which  abbot  we  do  not  know;  at  this  time  the 
entire  Norman  clerestory  was  removed  and  in 
its  place  was  substituted  a  great  range  of  pointed 
windows  and  a  stone  vault,  for  the  support  of 
which  fine  flying  buttresses  were  flung  out  over 
the  aisles;  at  this  time  delicate  wave-patterned 
balustrades  of  open  tracery  were  applied  to  the 
copings  of  nave  and  aisles.  In  the  fifteenth 
century  the  transformation  continued:  a  gigan- 
tic window  was  inserted  in  the  west  front,  the 
tower  was  raised  and  surmounted  by  its  proud 

[  242  ] 


MALMESBURY 

"pyramis,"  taller  even  than  Salisbury  spire.  As 
so  often  happened,  however,  ambition  here  over- 
topped itself,  and  very  shortly  the  spire  fell  with- 
out, however,  injuring  any  portion  of  the  church. 
Towards  the  end  of  this  century  a  wonderful 
rood  screen,  evidently  similar  to  the  work  in  the 
chapel  of  Henry  VII.  at  Westminster,  was 
set  up  between  the  presbytery  and  the  nave; 
this  was  removed  after  the  Suppression  and 
inserted  under  the  west  arch  of  the  tower.  Now 
here  a  question  suggests  itself.  This  very  site 
is  now  filled  by  a  rough  wall  covered  with  blank 
plaster.  If  the  great  screen  was  indeed  placed 
here,  is  it  not  here  now,  only  slabbed  over  with 
lime  as  happened  in  Oxford  and  elsewhere? 
The  possibility  is  engaging  and  adds  another 
to  the  list  that  might  become  operative  were 
Malmesbury  Abbey  now  in  more  reverent 
hands. 

Malmesbury  at  the  Suppression  was  one  of 
the  most  majestic  abbeys  in  England,  though 
by  no  means  one  of  the  richest,  its  resources 
being  but  about  twenty-five  thousand  dollars 
yearly.  The  monastic  buildings  covered  an 
area  of  six  acres,  while  the  orchards,  gardens, 
and  "warren"  comprised  forty  more.  The 
cloister,  upwards  of  an  hundred  feet  square, 
with  all  the  monastic  buildings  lay  to  the  north 

[243] 


MALMESBURY 

on  the  very  brink  of  the  precipitous  hill  down 
the  sides  of  which  crept  the  industrial  offices 
to  the  brink  of  the  river,  where  one  of  the  many 
mills  is  even  now  in  commission.  Of  all  this, 
as  I  have  said,  nothing  now  remains,  thanks 
to  Mr.  Stumpe,  except  one  humble  mill  and 
the  remains  of  the  infirmary;  streets  have  been 
slashed  ruthlessly  through  all  the  abbey  pre- 
cincts, shabby  houses  crowd  toward  its  walls, 
and  only  a  few  feet  of  land  remain  about  the 
shapeless  ruins  in  sad  memory  of  the  once  vast 
estates  once  held  in  trust  by  the  Benedictine 
order  in  the  name  of  the  holy  St.  Aldhelm.  At 
the  close  of  the  fifteenth  century  Malmesbury 
must  have  stood  second  to  Durham  alone  for 
majesty  of  situation  and  grandeur  of  aspect, 
with  its  far  flung  monastery  crowning  the  hill- 
top and  rising  from  terraced  orchards  and  gar- 
dens, the  huge  bulk  of  St.  Aldhelm's  church 
with  its  triple  towers  looming  over  all. 

Malmesbury  was  not  one  of  the  abbeys  which, 
"when  the  devil  was  sick,"  had  been  destined 
for  preservation  as  a  cathedral ;  but  it  might  well 
have  been,  not  only  from  its  location  but  because 
of  its  splendid  history  and  traditions  and  its 
majestic  beauty.  It  will  be  remembered  that, 
when  Henry  was  importuning  Parliament  to 
give  him  the  greater  as  well  as  the  lesser  houses, 

[244] 


MALMESBURY 

he  had  caused  it  to  be  bruited  abroad  that  of  his 
piety  and  generosity  he  would  reestablish  many 
of  the  great  houses  as  cathedrals.  The  list  in- 
cluded some  twenty  monasteries;  as  soon  as  the 
bill  was  passed  the  list  was  withdrawn  and  only 
Westminster,  Oxford,  Chester,  Gloucester,  Bris- 
tol, and  Petersborough  actually  became  see 
cities,  though  seven  other  cathedrals  which  were 
included  in  the  king's  list  and  served  by  Bene- 
dictine monks  were  turned  over  to  secular 
canons.  Of  the  $80,000,000  acknowledged  as 
received  by  the  Augmentation  Office  from  the 
suppression  of  the  monasteries,  but  $500,000 
went  to  the  endowment  of  new  bishopricks. 
Forty  million  dollars  were  used  for  the  army, 
navy,  and  the  prosecution  of  foreign  wars,  whilst 
thirty-five  million  were  turned  into  the  king's 
private  purse  to  be  expended  by  him  at  will 
and  after  the  unsavoury  fashion  the  details  of 
which  have  fortunately  been  preserved  for  our 
instruction  and  edification. 

Malmesbury  Abbey  was  surrendered  to  the 
king  on  December  15,  1539,  by  Robert  Framp- 
ton  and  his  twenty-one  monks;  the  abbot  ac- 
cepted a  pension  amounting  in  the  money  of  our 
time  to  almost  $8,000  per  year,  the  munificence 
of  the  amount  being  undoubtedly  due  to  the 
faithless  abbot's  complaisance,  cheerful  or  other- 

[245] 


MALMESBURY 

wise,  in  the  royal  schemes.  The  prior  received 
$600  annually,  the  monks  but  $350.  Under 
Mary  I.  but  seven  still  survived  to  draw  the 
pensions  then  continued  to  them  by  Cardinal 
Pole. 


[246] 


OUR  LADY  OF  THE  FOUNTAINS 

AS  we  began  this  cursory  study  of  the 
monastic  remains  of  Great  Britain 
with  Glastonbury,  so  is  it  fitting  that 
we  should  bring  it  to  a  close  with  Fountains. 
South  and  North,  Benedictine  and  Cistercian, 
the  two  abbeys  represent  the  highest  point 
achieved  by  the  two  great  Orders  that  had  so 
much  to  do  with  the  building  up  of  that 
great  epoch  of  Christian  civilization  that  covered 
the  wonderful  thousand  years  of  medievalism. 
Together  they  restored  society  and  civiliza- 
tion, laid  the  foundations  of  British  character, 
and  made  possible  that  community  of  interest 
and  consistency  of  action  that  established 
British  nationality.  Fountains  falls  short  of 
Glastonbury  in  the  glory  and  significance  of  its 
founding,  in  the  splendour  and  versatility  of  its 
history,  in  the  grim  tragedy  of  its  death;  all 
monastic  foundations  must,  for  Glastonbury 
stands  alone  in  England  amongst  those  peaks 
of  unspeakable  majesty  that  rise  above  the  pla- 
teaux and  foothills  of  history,  but  in  every  other 
respect  it  is  singularly  eminent,  while  it  can 

[247] 


FOUNTAINS 

claim  place  with  Glastonbury  as  with  other 
immortal  houses  through  the  martyrdom  at 
Henry's  hands  of  its  last  abbot,  William  Thirsk; 
Marmaduke  Bradley,  who  nominally  succeeded 
the  murdered  abbot,  being  but  a  creature  of 
Crumwell's,  installed  by  him  for  the  accom- 
plishment of  the  ruin  of  Fountains. 

Unlike  Glastonbury,  unlike  nearly  all  other 
existing  ruins,  indeed,  this  great  Cistercian  house 
has  fallen  at  last  into  the  hands  of  a  Roman 
Catholic  nobleman,  who  sees  something  in  the 
forlorn  wreck  besides  its  possibilities  as  a  sheep- 
walk,  and  who  treats  it  with  the  most  tender  and 
reverent  regard.  It  has  passed  through  many 
hands  since  the  year  1540,  when  it  was  granted 
to  Sir  Richard  Gresham,  for  the  curse  of  failure 
of  male  issue  in  families  holding  monastic  estates 
has  held  here  as  elsewhere.  In  1846  of  the  six 
hundred  and  thirty  families  to  which  monastic 
estates  had  been  granted,  only  fourteen  had  not 
been  extinguished  through  failure  of  male  issue. 
Since  then  several  more  have  come  to  an  end, 
and  whether  we  attribute  the  fact  to  judgment 
or  coincidence,  it  is  certainly  notable  that  shame, 
disgrace,  violent  deaths,  and  total  extinction  have 
followed  the  names  of  all  those  who  took  part  in 
the  Suppression,  from  the  House  of  Tudor, 
through  its  agents,  the  Lords  spiritual  and  tem- 

[248] 


Fountains — The  XVI.  Century  Tower. 


FOUNTAINS 

poral  and  the  Commons  who  made  up  the  Par- 
liament in  the  thirty-first  year  of  Henry,  "by 
the  Grace  of  God,"  etc.,  etc.,  "Defender  of  the 
Faith"*  down  to  the  lay  holders  of  the  stolen 
estates.  Now  that  the  Marquis  of  Ripon  holds 
Fountains  in  trust  the  steady  decay  has  stopped 
and  every  stone  is  cared  for :  the  site  of  the  high 
altar  is  cleared,  the  pavement  there  relaid,  and 
on  occasion  mass  is  said  within  the  empty  walls, 
while  pious  pilgrimages  to  the  sacred  ruins  are 
encouraged  and  duly  welcomed.  Lord  Ripon  has 
done  everything  to  make  these  ruins  speak  to  the 
deaf  ears  of  the  twentieth  century.  Not  only  is 
there  everywhere  the  evidence  of  devout  care,  but 
plans  and  explanatory  notes  are  placed  at  various 
points,  and  facilities  for  refreshment  have  been 
thoughtfully  provided,  since  they  are  made  neces- 
sary by  the  isolated  position  of  the  ruins.  In 
every  way  a  generous  welcome  is  extended  to  all 
visitors,  and  so  Fountains  stands  as  the  most 
attractive  shrine  in  Great  Britain  for  pilgrims 
to  the  sad  memorials  of  a  wonderful  past.  Close 
at  hand  has  arisen,  also  at  the  hands  of  the  same 
nobleman,  a  new  church  dedicated  to  the  Blessed 
Virgin,  and  though  the  monastic  habit  is  no 
longer  seen  in  field  and  wood,  nor  is  there  any 
sound  of  convent  bell  or  the  chanting  of  the 

*  Vid.,  Sir  Henry  Spellman:  "  History  of  Sacrilege." 

[249] 


FOUNTAINS 

hours,  still  the  Divine  liturgy  sounds  over  the 
lands  once  consecrated  to  the  religious  life,  and 
some  day,  it  may  be,  part  of  the  sacred  ruins 
may  be  rehabilitated  and  the  Rule  of  St.  Robert 
become  operative  again  within  the  domains  of 
"Our  Lady  of  the  Fountains." 

For  absolute  beauty  of  site  and  architecture 
and  for  pure  pictorial  quality  combined,  this 
abbey  stands  easily  first  of  all  in  Great  Britain. 
From  Ripon  three  miles  away,  one  walks  out 
through  a  shady  road  to  a  foot-path  that  strikes 
to  the  left  to  the  little  village  of  Studley,  where 
we  reach  the  gates  of  Studley  Royal.  Thence 
the  walk  is  through  a  fine  old  park,  under  huge 
oaks,  by  placid  waterways,  through  winding  and 
flowery  paths,  out  through  the  little  valley  of  the 
Skell,  until  of  a  sudden,  far  away,  framed  by 
forest  and  fronted  by  a  doubled  river  of  still 
water  and  deep  grass,  rises  the  ghost  of  the  great 
abbey,  a  silvery  vision,  silent  and  alone.  As 
you  approach  by  the  winding  path  the  abbey 
disappears  now  and  again,  only  to  reveal  itself 
from  some  new  point,  so  the  approach  is  a  long 
succession  of  changing  pictures,  the  last  view  of 
all  being  from  the  highest  point  of  the  path, 
whence  one  looks  down  upon  the  vast  ruin  and 
the  wide  expanse  of  shaven  turf  wherein  are 
traced  the  lines  of  foundations  of  buildings  long 

[  250  ] 


FOUNTAINS 

since  destroyed,  or  from  which  rise  the  crags 
and  shards  of  others  fortunately  preserved  from 
a  similar  fate.  No  piles  of  fallen  masonry  en- 
cumber the  ground,  no  trees  rise  in  court  or 
nave  or  choir,  no  ivy  mantles  the  walls;  the 
vivid  picturesqueness  and  unearthly  poetry  of 
Netley,  the  tragical  desolation  of  Whitby  and 
Rievaulx  are  wanting.  Fountains  depends  for 
its  power  on  the  sheer  wonder  and  beauty  of  its 
architecture  and  the  fortunate  forms  into  which 
the  ruins  have  fallen,  but  these  are  sufficient, 
and  for  once  one  does  not  miss  the  adjuncts 
nature  has  added  elsewhere  to  enhance  the  glory 
of  the  traces  of  man's  consummate  handiwork. 

Fountains  owes  its  existence  to  the  great  relig- 
ious revival  of  the  first  quarter  of  the  twelfth 
century,  which  made  itself  visible  through  St. 
Robert,  St.  Bernard,  and  the  vast  line  of  Cister- 
cian monasteries  founded  by  them  and  their 
successors.  It  was  not  a  case  of  one  man,  even 
were  he  a  St.  Bernard,  rousing  a  dormant  world 
by  the  clarion  of  his  own  word:  it  was  a  great 
general  movement  amongst  all  peoples,  show- 
ing itself  everywhere  at  the  same  moment. 
St.  Robert,  St.  Stephen  the  Englishman,  and  St. 
Bernard  were  the  organizers  of  revolt,  the  direc- 
tors of  action,  the  perpetuators  of  the  victory. 
It  was  in  1132,  only  four  years  after  St.  Bernard 

[251] 


FOUNTAINS 

had  sent  his  first  monks  to  England,  and  less 
than  a  year  after  these  had  appeared  in  York- 
shire and,  under  the  protection  of  the  great 
Turstan  of  York  and  by  the  generosity  of  old 
Walter  1'Espec,  had  settled  down  at  Rievaulx, 
that  discontent  and  the  impulse  towards  reform 
showed  themselves  in  the  abbey  of  Our  Lady  in 
York,  a  Benedictine  house  then  less  than  fifty 
years  old.  Richard  the  prior,  with  the  sub- 
prior  and  eleven  of  the  brothers,  revolted  against 
what  seemed  to  them  the  unrighteous  ease  and 
comfort  that  obtained  under  the  abbacy  of 
Geoffrey,  an  old  man  weak  in  discipline,  under 
whom  the  monastery  had  got  rather  out  of  hand. 
To  Turstan  of  York  they  went,  of  course,  as 
did  every  one  of  that  day  who  needed  spiritual 
succour,  and  at  their  instigation  the  archbishop 
fixed  on  the  6th  of  October,  1132,  for  a  formal 
visitation.  Abbot  Geoffrey  was  old,  but  his 
craft  was  still  with  him,  and  he  made  of  the 
threatened  visitation  a  test  of  abbatial  vs.  epis- 
copal authority.  When  the  bishop  arrived  with 
his  suite  he  was  met  at  the  gates  by  the  redoubt- 
able old  abbot  and  a  great  throng  of  religious, 
gathered  hastily  from  neighbouring  monasteries, 
and  refused  admittance  unless  he  came  alone, 
if  come  he  must.  But  Turstan  was  a  match  for 
Geoffrey;  he  refused  to  submit  to  dictation  and 

[252] 


FOUNTAINS 

entered  the  cloister.  The  tumult  rose  almost 
to  the  pitch  of  a  riot,  which  was  only  quelled 
when  the  archbishop  thundered  out  an  interdict 
against  the  whole  monastery  and  then  solemnly 
entered  the  church  and  took  possession,  with  all 
his  train. 

Of  course  after  this  open  quarrel,  Richard 
and  his  twelve  brothers  left  at  once,  taking 
nothing  with  them  but  the  clothes  they  wore. 
At  first  Turstan  looked  after  them  and  housed 
them  in  his  own  palace,  but,  learning  that 
Geoffrey  had  appealed  to  the  Papal  legate  and 
that  he  had  also  succeeded  in  winning  back  one 
of  the  thirteen  (whose  place  was  immediately 
filled  by  Robert  of  Whitby),  he  determined  to 
remove  them  from  the  neighbourhood  of  the 
implacable  old  abbot  and  so  took  them  to  an 
estate  of  his  own  near  Ripon  and,  midwinter 
as  it  was,  assigned  them  a  portion  of  the  land  as 
their  own.  Forthwith  they  elected  Richard  as 
abbot,  said  farewell  to  the  good  archbishop, 
and  took  up  their  abode,  first  in  the  little  caves 
of  the  rocky  cliffs,  later  under  the  shelter  of  a 
cluster  of  enormous  yew  trees,  weaving  hurdles 
between  the  trunks  for  makeshift  protection. 
Even  then  the  trees  must  have  been  six  or  seven 
hundred  years  old,  yet  at  the  end  of  the  eigh- 
teenth century  seven  still  remained,  and  two 

[253] 


FOUNTAINS 

stand  now,  fourteen  hundred  years  old,  having 
seen  the  coming  of  the  monks  and  their  going, 
waiting,  it  may  be,  only  for  their  coming  again. 
If  hardship  and  austerity  were  what  Richard 
and  his  men  had  sought,  they  received  full 
measure.  Turstan  sent  them  bread  at  intervals, 
and  the  Skell  gave  them  water.  They  worked 
doggedly  at  redeeming  the  utter  wilderness, 
sometimes  with  food,  more  often  without.  They 
accepted  St.  Bernard  as  their  spiritual  lord,  and 
he  sent  them  another  Geoffrey  to  teach  them  the 
rule  and  direct  them  in  the  building  of  a  proper 
house.  Their  numbers  increased  rapidly,  but 
no  money  was  forthcoming;  what  is  now  a 
smiling  garden  was  then  an  horrible  wilderness, 
in  spite  of  their  labours,  and  the  earth  refused  to 
give  them  nourishment.  Finally,  after  two  years 
of  superhuman  exertions  with  no  material  re- 
turns, they  found  themselves  reduced  to  living 
on  boiled  leaves,  and  then,  and  only  then,  they 
surrendered,  and  Richard  went  sorrowfully  and 
in  person  to  St.  Bernard  himself  to  ask  that  the 
unlucky  community  be  taken  bodily  to  France 
and  given  one  of  the  granges  of  Clairvaux  in 
that  milder  land.  The  prayer  was  granted,  but 
when  Richard  reached  home  he  found  that  the 
need  had  passed.  None  other  than  the  Dean 
of  York  had  entered  the  monastery,  bringing  a 

[254] 


FOUNTAINS 

fine  library  and  much  money.  Immediately  two 
canons  followed  him  and,  as  says  the  chronicler, 
old  Serlo  of  Kirkstall,  "from  that  forth  and 
thenceforward  the  Lord  Blessed  our  valleys  with 
the  blessing  of  Heaven  above  and  of  the  deep 
that  lieth  under,  extending  the  vine  and  giving 
to  it  showers  of  His  benediction." 

The  days  when,  sitting  around  a  pot  of  boiled 
leaves,  the  brothers  could  sing  Te  Deum  at  the 
providential  arrival  of  a  cart  load  of  bread  from 
Eustace  Fitz  John  were  gone.  They  had  been 
tried  and  were  not  found  wanting.  One  day, 
when  a  poor  pilgrim  had  begged  for  food  "in 
the  Name  of  the  Blessed  Saviour,"  the  almoner 
had  gone  to  the  abbot  with  word  that  but  two 
loaves  and  a  half  remained,  and  that  these  must 
go  to  the  lay  brothers  when  their  work  was  done. 
"  Give  the  poor  man  one  loaf,  and  let  the  workers 
have  the  rest,"  said  Abbot  Richard,  "  as  for  our- 
selves, the  Lord  will  provide."  So  it  was  done 
and  in  answer  came  Fitz  John's  load  of  loaves, 
and  much  else  besides,  for  now  wealth  flowed  in 
apace  and  the  numbers  increased  by  leaps  and 
bounds.  In  four  years  began  that  founding  of 
new  colonies  that  is  such  an  evidence  of  the 
vigorous  life  in  mediaeval  monasticism.  New- 
minster  was  established  in  1138,  Meaux  in  1150, 
and  between  them  five  other  houses,  including 

[255] 


FOUNTAINS 

Kirkstall,  owed  their  existence  to  the  reproduc- 
tive power  of  the  great  abbey  that  had  grown 
from  the  wattled  hut  beneath  the  yews,  of  1132. 
Richard  died  and  went  to  his  reward  in  1139; 
Richard  II.  followed  in  1143,  and  was  succeeded 
by  Henry  Murdac,  under  whom  the  first  abbey 
was  built,  and  burned  as  well,  for  the  partisans 
of  Archbishop  Fitzherbert  of  York,  who  had 
been  deposed  by  the  Pope  in  1146,  accusing 
Murdac  of  being  implicated  in  his  fall,  had 
attacked  the  monastery  and,  failing  to  find  the 
abbot,  though  he  was  prostrate  in  prayer  before 
the  high  altar,  had  applied  the  torch  to  the 
then  unfinished  buildings.  Abbot  after  abbot 
followed  in  swift  succession,  for  all  were  old 
men  when  they  were  chosen,  and  the  monastery 
was  repaired  and  completed  on  the  original  lines. 
During  the  reign  of  Ralph,  seventh  in  succession, 
a  terrible  famine  fell  on  Yorkshire,  and  all  the 
abbey  lands  were  crowded  with  little  huts  where 
the  poor  took  refuge,  living  on  the  bounty  of 
the  monks  until  a  better  harvest  put  them  on 
their  feet  again.  Then  followed  three  abbots 
whose  names  will  be  forever  remembered  as 
those  of  the  men  who  rebuilt  Fountains  in  the 
splendid  style  of  the  thirteenth  century:  John  of 
York,  1203-1211;  John  Pherd,  1211-1219;  and 
John  of  Kent,  1219-1247.  John  I.  rebuilt  the 

[256] 


FOUNTAINS 

choir  on  the  fine  lines  now  only  indicated  by 
the  existing  aisle  walls;  every  trace  of  the  pri- 
mary arcades,  with  triforium,  clerestory,  and 
vaulting,  has  gone,  but  we  can  still  see  from 
what  is  left  how  brilliant  and  original  was  the 
work.  But  the  great  glory  of  Fountains  lies  in 
the  terminal  transept  to  the  east,  the  Chapel  of 
Nine  Altars,  one  of  the  noblest  creations  of 
Gothic  art  in  England.  Classical  in  proportion, 
perfectly  organic  in  development,  possessed  of 
that  inevitable  quality  that  marks  great  art  of 
every  age  and  style,  it  is  as  spontaneous  and 
supple  as  fifteenth  century  work  and  demon- 
strates perfectly  the  sometimes  forgotten  fact 
that  the  builders  of  the  thirteenth  century  could 
and  did  rise  to  the  highest  levels  of  supremely 
creative  and  poetic  art.  We  sometimes  think 
of  this  as  a  hard  style  and  circumscribed  by 
narrowing  laws;  as  a  matter  of  fact  the  laws 
were  only  such  as  were  necessary  to  curb  the 
tendency  of  men  towards  lawlessness.  They 
hampered  no  man  who  was  really  great,  while 
they  prevented  weak  men  from  going  far  astray. 
The  fashion  in  which  John  of  Kent  handled  his 
problem  here  at  Fountains  marks  him  as  a  truly 
great  architect:  the  carrying  of  the  lines  of  the 
main  arcade  of  the  church  across  the  transverse 
chapel  by  means  of  two  arches  borne  on  a  single 

[257] 


FOUNTAINS 

lofty  shaft  of  consummate  design  shows  an 
imagination,  a  grasp  of  the  large  laws  of  archi- 
tecture, and  a  power  of  composition  that  apper- 
tain only  to  the  greatest  men.  It  is  a  wonderful 
thing,  this  "Nine  Altars,"  and  one  of  the  loveliest 
in  England. 

Not  content  with  this  supreme  triumph,  Kent- 
ish John  continued  during  his  long  abbacy  the 
labour  of  glorifying  his  house:  the  cloister,  now 
wholly  gone,  was  his,  also  the  huge  infirmary, 
the  guest  house  "for  the  reception  of  the  poor 
of  Christ,  as  well  as  the  princes  of  the  world," 
and  many  other  of  the  multitudinous  buildings 
that  at  the  Suppression  covered  an  area  of  twelve 
acres. 

For  two  centuries  after  the  death  of  the  great 
abbot-architect,  John  of  Kent,  Fountains  grew 
steadily  greater  in  its  reputation  for  learning, 
sanctity,  and  charity,  richer  in  land  and  herds. 
At  the  Suppression  the  home  estate  reached 
westward  for  a  distance  of  thirty  miles  from  the 
very  walls  of  Ripon;  in  Craven  the  lands  com- 
prised sixty-four  thousand  acres  in  one  estate 
surrounded  by  a  ring  fence;  other  of  its  landed 
property  lay  in  no  less  than  two  hundred  and 
forty  lordships.  Let  it  be  remembered  that  the 
major  part  of  this  land  was  absolute  wilderness 
when  it  came  into  possession  of  the  monks  of 

[258] 


FOUNTAINS 

Fountains,  and  that  it  had  become  rich  farming 
land,  under  a  high  state  of  cultivation  and  sup- 
porting thousands  of  tenants,  when  Henry 
seized  it  for  his  own  ends.  The  abbey  close 
comprised  eighty  acres,  and  adjoining  was  a 
park  of  two  hundred  acres.  At  the  Suppression 
there  were  found  at  Fountains  2,356  cattle, 
1,326  sheep,  86  horses,  and  79  swine.  The  an- 
nual revenues  were  equivalent  to  about  sixty-five 
thousand  dollars  of  the  money  of  to-day;  the 
gold  and  silver  plate,  nearly  all  in  the  shape  of 
sacred  vessels  and  ornaments,  was  valued  at 
about  forty  thousand  dollars. 

Architecturally  the  abbey  stood  at  pause 
during  these  two  centuries :  it  was  not  until  the 
abbacy  of  John  Dornton,  1478-1494,  that  work 
began  again,  and  then  in  a  shape  we  can  hardly 
accept  with  satisfaction;  marvellous  as  must 
have  been  the  enormous  east  window,  sixty  feet 
high  and  twenty-four  feet  wide,  which  he  intro- 
duced in  John  of  Kent's  "Nine  Altars,"  it  did 
much  to  destroy  the  unity  and  consistency  of 
the  design,  and  the  same  is  equally  true  of  the 
high  windows  at  the  north  and  south  ends;  on 
the  other  hand,  his  big  west  window  must  have 
added  greatly  to  the  effect  of  the  nave.  Mar- 
maduke  Huby,  who  next  succeeded,  was  even 
more  ambitious  as  an  architect,  but,  instead  of 

[259] 


FOUNTAINS 

transforming  the  old,  he  immortalized  himself 
by  an  entirely  new  work  which  is  one  of  the 
supreme  beauties  of  Fountains  and  his  own 
enduring  monument. 

Originally,  of  course,  no  well  regulated  Cis- 
tercian abbey  might  glory  in  a  real  tower;  no 
provision  was  made  for  this  luxury  at  Fountains, 
and  when,  in  spite  of  slight  foundations,  a  cen- 
tral tower  was  finally  raised  over  the  crossing, 
trouble  began  to  develop;  huge  abutments  were 
hastily  reared  to  strengthen  the  sinking  fabric, 
but  they  were  evidently  inadequate;  the  tower 
was  taken  down,  and,  as  at  Evesham  and  Glas- 
tonbury,  a  totally  new  structure  was  reared  at 
the  end  of  the  north  transept  where  adequate 
foundations  could  be  obtained.  At  Rievaulx 
the  new  tower  was,  I  think,  an  isolated  campa- 
nile at  the  angle  of  the  south  transept,  elsewhere 
it  took  its  place  at  the  west  end  of  the  nave ;  but 
Abbot  Huby's  tower  is  the  only  northerly  one 
that  still  stands,  if  we  except  Evesham,  which  is 
complete,  but  which  has  lost  every  trace  of  the 
church  to  which  it  was  once  but  an  adjunct. 

Huby's  tower,  though  the  scaffolding  must 
have  been  but  lately  removed  when  the  vast 
church  was  abandoned  to  destruction,  is  a 
thoroughly  noble  piece  of  design,  perfect  in  its 
proportions,  delicate  in  detail,  in  no  wise  over- 

[260] 


FOUNTAINS 

loaded  or  overwrought,  a  masterpiece  of  quiet 
dignity  and  power.  It  dates  entirely  from  the 
sixteenth  century  and  is  another  evidence  of  the 
vitality  of  architecture  up  to  the  very  day  when 
it  came  to  an  end  under  Henry  VIII.  Originally 
it  bore  some  forty  statues  in  as  many  niches, 
together  with  many  beautiful  texts,  finely  cut  in 
"black-letter."  Entrance  to  this  tower  was  by 
a  great  arch  filling  the  whole  north  end  of  the 
transept  and  rising  to  the  very  roof;  to-day  the 
view  across  the  transepts  through  this  splendid 
archway  is  one  of  the  most  perfect  things  at 
Fountains,  for  out  of  the  blaze  of  sun  we  see 
deep  into  a  space  of  gloom  broken  by  the  slender 
tracery  of  a  lofty  window,  where  painted  glass 
has  given  place  to  a  screen  of  weaving  branches 
and  flickering  leaves,  a  new  "vitrail"  of  emerald 
and  gold. 

One  more  abbot  sat  at  Fountains,  William 
Thirsk,  who  was  elected  in  1526,  served  ten 
years,  and  then,  being  found  recalcitrant  by 
Henry's  emissaries  on  their  first  visitation,  was 
arbitrarily  deposed  and  his  place  given  —  or 
rather,  sold  —  to  one  Marmaduke  Bradley,  who, 
offering  Crumwell  six  hundred  marks,  and 
through  him  the  equivalent  of  sixty  thousand 
dollars  to  the  king  himself,  as  the  price  of  his 
preferment,  was  found  by  them  to  be  a  man 

[261] 


FOUNTAINS 

after  their  own  hearts,  on  whom  they  might  de- 
pend later.  The  king  simply  had  to  have 
Fountains;  that  was  all  there  was  about  it;  its 
wealth,  its  lands,  were  exceedingly  desired  by 
the  "Defender  of  the  Faith,"  the  only  question 
was  how  to  get  hold  of  them.  At  this  time,  it 
must  be  remembered  Henry  was  only  experi- 
menting in  confiscation:  none  of  the  greater 
abbeys  had  been  attacked,  but  the  returns  from 
the  smaller  had  been  encouraging;  the  new  nobles 
were  clamorous ;  the  king's  needs  were  pressing, 
and  the  only  money  in  sight  was  that  which 
might  be  obtained  in  one  way  or  another  from 
the  monastic  orders.  Fortunately  for  the  king, 
rebellion  broke  out  against  his  course;  and  in 
the  suppression  thereof  he  learned  that  his 
power  was  greater  than  he  had  imagined  and 
that  he  might  safely  indulge  himself  to  the  full. 
The  first  general  uprising  occurred  in  Lincoln- 
shire, though  Northumberland  has  the  honour 
of  claiming  the  first  rebellion  against  the  king's 
authority,  when  the  town  of  Hexham  rose  as 
one  man  to  defend  its  abbey.  England  had 
begun  to  realize  what  the  suppression  even  of 
the  smaller  monasteries  meant.  The  sight  of 
the  outrages  that  accompanied  the  seizure  of  the 
little  houses  was  too  much  for  the  people;  they 
had  conceived  an  hatred  for  the  "Vicar  Gen- 

[262] 


FOUNTAINS 

eral,"  of  whom  they  said  "there  is  no  earthly 
man  so  evil  believed  as  the  said  Lord  Crumwell 
is  with  the  commoners,"  that  had  burst  all 
bounds;  they  were  particularly  incensed  against 
the  prelates  Cranmer,  Latimer,  Hilsey,  and 
Allen,  whom  they  charged  with  heresy  and 
schism  and  feared  as  exponents  of  "the  new 
learning;"  and  personally  they  were  feeling  the 
evil  results  of  the  Suppression  through  loss  of 
religious  and  charitable  ministrations.  Natu- 
rally, therefore,  they  rose  in  rebellion;  but  at 
first  they  had  no  leader,  no  arms,  no  organiza- 
tion. They  formulated  their  demands  and  sent 
them  to  the  king,  whose  reply  came  in  the  per- 
sons of  Sir  John  Russell  and  the  Duke  of 
Suffolk  at  the  head  of  an  army,  and  instantly 
the  rebellion  was  at  an  end.  Henry  issued  a 
proclamation  of  full  pardon  to  all  involved  in 
the  uprising  and  immediately  arrested  one  hun- 
dred of  those  supposed  to  be  chiefly  involved 
and  had  them  sent  to  the  Tower.  Fifty  of  these 
unfortunates,  including  two  abbots,  four  canons, 
ten  monks,  and  the  same  number  of  secular 
priests  were  found  guilty  after  a  form  of  trial 
and  were  forthwith  executed. 

Another  revolt  in  Cheshire  was  promptly 
crushed  by  Sir  Piers  Dutton,  and  then,  like  a 
summer  tempest,  broke  the  storm  in  the  North. 

[263] 


FOUNTAINS 

In  a  flash  all  England  from  the  Humber  to  the 
Scottish  border  was  in  open  revolt;  five  counties 
were  suddenly  set  together  in  defiance  of  the 
king,  in  defence  of  the  monasteries  and  in  sup- 
port of  the  Papal  authority.  And  here  was  a 
leader  at  last,  one  Robert  Aske,  a  man  of  good 
blood,  enthusiastic,  devout,  statesmanlike  in  his 
grasp  of  conditions  and  causes,  and,  withal, 
frank,  honest,  simple  hearted,  and,  unfortu- 
nately, absolutely  without  guile.  The  Pilgrim- 
age of  Grace  threatened  the  throne  itself.  Henry 
saw  at  once  this  was  no  second  Lincolnshire 
rising  but  determined  and  full-fledged  revolt 
against  his  cherished  policies.  The  whole  North 
of  England  was  in  revolution:  the  list  of  griev- 
ances was  explicit:  the  Suppression  must  cease, 
and  the  monks  be  restored  to  the  houses  of 
which  they  had  already  been  dispossessed; 
Crumwell  must  be  abolished  utterly;  the  Arch- 
bishop of  Canterbury  and  the  bishops  of 
Worcester,  Rochester,  and  Dublin,  together 
with  all  other  leaders  of  the  Reformation,  de- 
posed; and  the  Papal  authority  acknowledged 
throughout  England. 

Here  was  rebellion  in  solemn  earnest :  nobility, 
gentry,  and  commons  flocked  to  the  standards 
of  the  "Five  Wounds"  and  of  St.  Cuthbert;  in 
a  short  time  forty  thousand  men  were  under 

[264] 


FOUNTAINS 

arms.  York  fell;  Richmond  and  Durham  fell; 
the  great  stronghold  of  Pomfret  surrendered  at 
last ;  and  of  all  the  northern  citadels  Skipton  and 
Scarborough  alone  held  out  for  the  king.  The 
peril  was  acute  and  ominous.  Henry  met  it 
with  consummate  craft.  Aske,  true  patriot  that 
he  was,  would  countenance  no  violence  or  blood- 
shed until  the  king  should  drive  him  to  this 
extremity  and  this,  Henry,  knowing  the  temper 
of  his  own  troops,  was  not  likely  to  do.  Instead 
he  sent  Norfolk  to  Doncaster  with  words  of 
conciliation  and  promises  of  pardon.  The  plot 
nearly  failed,  for  Crumwell  got  out  of  hand  and 
wrote  privately  to  Sir  Ralph  Eure  that  if  the 
North  did  not  submit  at  once  "there  should  be 
such  vengeance  taken  upon  them  that  the  whole 
world  should  speak  thereof  and  take  example 
by  them,"  while  Norfolk,  evidently  desiring  two 
strings  to  his  bow,  tried  to  bribe  Lord  Darcy 
to  murder  Aske  quietly  and  without  scandal. 
Finally,  however,  the  two  parties  came  together 
at  Doncaster.  The  insurgents  demanded  the 
undoing  of  all  that  had  been  accomplished  by 
Henry  towards  the  suppression  of  monasticism 
and  secession  from  Rome,  a  general  pardon  for 
all  in  revolt,  and  a  parliament  at  York  for  the 
adjustment  of  grievances.  It  would  appear  that 
Norfolk  satisfied  Aske  and  his  men  absolutely, 

[265] 


FOUNTAINS 

for  at  the  conclusion  of  the  conference  the 
people  "gave  a  great  shout  of  joy,"  tore  off  their 
badges  and  cried,  "We  will  wear  no  badge  or 
figure,  but  the  badge  of  our  sovereign  lord!" 

Unfortunately  for  them,  however,  Norfolk  had 
given  the  king's  promises  in  the  spirit  his  master 
had  meant.  He  had  already  been  reminded  of 
the  attitude  he  was  to  assume  by  the  king's 
letter  saying,  "in  the  end  you  said  you  would 
esteem  no  promise  that  you  should  make  to  the 
rebels,  nor  think  your  honour  touched  in  the 
breach  and  violation  of  the  same."  The  object 
was  to  procure  the  dispersal  of  the  threatening 
Northern  army,  and  this  was  easily  achieved 
when  its  leader  was  a  man  so  honourable  and 
confiding  as  Aske  appears  to  have  been.  He  was 
a  great  leader  indeed,  but  no  match  for  such  a 
combination  as  Henry,  Crumwell,  and  Norfolk. 

The  danger  passed,  Henry  sat  down  to  wait 
his  next  opportunity;  he  knew  that  time  only 
was  necessary  to  deliver  the  North  into  his  hands. 
Aske  was  sent  for  and  journeyed  to  London 
with  letters  of  recommendation  to  the  king, 
given,  as  Norfolk  wrote  Crumwell,  only  "to  lull 
the  bearer  into  false  security."  Here  he  was 
treated  with  gentle  consideration  by  the  king, 
and  thoroughly  pumped  of  all  his  information. 
Returning  safely  he  found  trouble  awaiting  him. 

[266] 


FOUNTAINS 

Time  was  passing.  Crumwell  and  Cranmer  were 
still  in  high  favour,  the  Suppression  was  going 
on  smoothly,  there  was  no  prospect  of  a  Parlia- 
ment at  York.  "  We  have  all  been  tricked!"  cried 
Sir  Francis  Bigod;  and,  in  spite  of  the  prayers 
of  Aske  and  his  assurances  that  the  king  would 
keep  his  word,  he  attacked  Hull  and  Beverly, 
failed,  and  was  captured.  Eight  thousand  men 
surrounded  and  assailed  Carlisle  and  were 
beaten  off.  The  king  had  used  his  breathing 
space  well,  and  troops  had  been  poured  into  the 
disaffected  districts.  Now  his  chance  had  come; 
the  unfortunate  and  purely  sporadic  revolts  gave 
him  his  excuse;  he  denounced  the  Treaty  of 
Doncaster,  withdrew  his  general  pardon,  and 
struck  with  instant  force  and  decision.  Norfolk 
fell  on  York  like  an  avalanche :  Aske  was  seized, 
together  with  every  other  of  the  leaders ;  martial 
law  was  proclaimed;  and  the  butchery  began. 
Norfolk's  "only  regret  was  that  he  could  not 
find  iron  chains  enough  in  the  country  to  hang 
the  prisoners  in;  ropes  must  serve  for  some. 
He  flattered  himself,  however,  that  so  great  a 
number  put  to  death  at  a  time  had  never  been 
heard  of." 

As  a  prelude  to  the  slaughter,  Norfolk  devised 
a  clever  scheme:  he  had  the  accused  tried  twice, 
first  by  juries  made  up  of  their  friends  and  kins- 

[2671 


FOUNTAINS 

men,  "  to  prove  their  affection  whether  they  will 
rather  serve  his  majesty  truly  and  frankly  in 
this  matter,  or  else  to  favour  their  friends,  and 
if  they  will  not  find,  then  they  may  have  thanks 
according  to  their  cankered  hearts;"  finally  and 
definitelv,  as  the  noble  duke  himself  delcares, 

•/  * 

"as  for  the  other  inquest,  I  will  appoint  such 
that  I  shall  no  more  doubt  of  than  of  myself." 
Of  course  in  the  end  all,  with  the  exception  of 
one  Ralph  Bulmer,  were  found  guilty  "of  con- 
spiring to  deprive  the  king  of  his  dignity,  title, 
name  and  royal  state,  namely  of  being  on  earth 
the  supreme  head  of  the  English  Church,"  of 
endeavouring  to  force  the  king  "to  summon  a 
Parliament  and  Convocation,  and  other  divers 
high  treasons,"  and  finally  of  having  repeated 
their  "high  treasons"  after  having  once  been 
pardoned. 

Robert  Aske,  freely  pardoned  and  innocent 
of  any  complicity  in  the  second  rising,  was 
hanged  in  chains  at  York.  The  chief  leaders 
amongst  the  nobles  and  gentry  were  hanged, 
drawn,  and  quartered,  together  with  the  abbots 
of  Jervaulx  and  Fountains;  the  priors  of  Gis- 
burgh  and  Bridlington,  with  many  monks,  also 
went  to  their  deaths,  and  in  a  short  space  Nor- 
folk had  drenched  the  North  with  blood  and 
crushed  forever  all  opposition  to  his  king. 

[268] 


FOUNTAINS 

It  was  precisely  what  Henry  had  waited  for; 
with  consummate  skill  he  had  turned  a  grave 
peril  into  a  supreme  furtherance  of  his  own  will. 
There  is  no  evidence  whatever  that  any  abbot 
or  monk  was  implicated  in  either  the  Pilgrimage 
of  Grace  or  the  second  rising.  They  remained 
in  their  monasteries  where  they  belonged  and 
took  no  part  in  the  great  revolt  of  the  laymen; 
the  clergy  of  Yorkshire  did  indeed  join  heartily 
in  framing  and  subscribing  to  the  demands  that 
Henry  should  cease  from  his  course  in  ecclesias- 
tical matters,  but  no  overt  act  was  ever  proved 
against  one  of  them.  The  fearful  punishment 
that  fell  on  the  Church  in  the  land  of  St.  Cuth- 
bert  was  for  politic  reasons  only:  it  served  as 
an  awful  warning;  it  gave  the  king  a  pretext  for 
attacking  the  greater  monasteries;  and  finally  it 
revealed  to  him  the  possibilities  of  dissolution 
by  attainder,  a  simple  and  effective  source  of 
income,  as  well  as  a  facile  means  of  extermina- 
tion without  the  necessity  of  Acts  of  Parliament. 

I  have  written  at  length  of  the  northern  up- 
rising against  Henry's  policies,  for  it  was  as  the 
immediate  result  of  this  that  the  last  Abbot  of 
Fountains,  William  Thirsk,  with  Adam  Sed- 
burgh,  Abbot  of  Jervaulx,  was  brought  to  his 
martyrdom,  marking  the  dawn  of  the  reign  of 
terror  that  was  to  drench  England  in  innocent 

[269] 


FOUNTAINS 

blood,  destroy  forever  the  great  institution  that 
had  been  so  closely  interwoven  with  her  very 
life  for  five  centuries,  and  finally  extinguish  in 
an  ever  deepening  gloom  the  flame  of  Christian 
art. 


[270] 


1 


CONCLUSION 

total  extinction  of  monasticism  in 
England  which  was  consummated  in 
the  year  1540,  was  the  first  act  in  the 
drama  of  destruction,  the  scene  of  which  stretches 
over  the  length  and  breadth  of  Europe.  Every- 
where the  monastic  order  was  breaking  down, 
whether  beneath  the  assaults  modelled  on  that 
of  Henry  VIII.,  though  more  subtle  in  their 
methods,  or  as  a  result  of  internal  corruption 
and  its  consequent  disintegration.  Events  were 
marching  rapidly:  the  temper  and  standards  of 
the  people  were  changing,  and  by  the  end  of  the 
second  century  following  the  English  Suppres- 
sion, public  opinion  had  turned  against  the 
religious  orders,  though  two  hundred  years  of 
social  revolution  were  necessary  to  bring  this 
about.  In  another  century  there  was  none  to 
say  a  word  for  the  monks  and  friars,  and  we 
may  admit  that  by  that  time  matters  had  reached 
such  a  pass  that  few  good  words  could  honestly 
be  said.  Between  the  years  1830-35  more  than 

[271] 


CONCLUSION 

three  thousand  religious  houses  were  suppressed 
in  Europe,  and  till  the  end  of  the  nineteenth 
century  the  destruction  went  on,  urged  now  by 
the  people  themselves.  For  generations  the 
once  vast  institution  had  been  sinking  lower  and 
lower  in  the  estimation  of  men,  and  it  seemed  as 
though  its  total  destruction  could  be  delayed 
only  a  few  years  at  most. 

In  the  meantime,  however,  a  curious  thing 
was  taking  place.  Synchronously  with  the  bit- 
terest, arid  apparently  final,  attacks  on  monasti- 
cism  in  Italy,  France,  Germany,  Spain,  and 
Portugal,  there  appeared  a  sudden  and  utterly 
inexplicable  recrudescence  of  vitality,  as  though 
the  universal  purging  by  fire  had  bred  a  phoenix 
from  its  purgatorial  flames.  An  order  sup- 
pressed sprung  up  anew,  a  house  destroyed  ap- 
peared in  another  place;  passionate  defenders 
of  medisevalism  and  advocates  of  monasticism 
such  as  Digby  and  Maitland  in  England,  de 
Maistre  and  Montalembert  in  France,  came 
forth  with  their  evangel  to  balk  an  astonished 
world.  Back  to  England  came  the  monks  and 
friars  under  the  protection  of  Rome;  in  the 
United  States,  order  after  order  took  root  and 
thrived  beneath  the  same  control,  and  at  last 
in  the  English  Church  itself,  barren  of  monastic 
life  for  three  hundred  years,  orders  of  monks 

[272] 


4 


CONCLUSION 

and  nuns  were  established,  with  new  designa- 
tions, but  under  the  same  old  rule.  And  to-day, 
with  the  sanction  of  the  Archbishop  of  York, 
Primate  of  England  and  Metropolitan,  the  most 
ancient  Order  of  St.  Benedict  has  been  re-es- 
tablished in  Yorkshire,  and  with  such  apparent 
strength  that  it  has  been  able  to  send  its  monks 
across  the  sea,  and  found,  also  with  episcopal 
sanction,  a  daughter  house  in  a  diocese  of  the 
American  Church.  With  the  opening  of  the 
twentieth  century,  suppression  ceased,  save  only 
in  France,  and  the  re-establishment  of  monasti- 
cism  began. 

What  is  the  meaning  of  this  phenomenon? 
Is  it  simply  that  action  is  always  followed  by 
reaction  ?  Is  it  that,  surfeited  by  the  over- 
abundant food  of  the  "Age  of  Reason,"  man 
turns  in  picturesque  affectation  to  the  husks  and 
shards  of  a  more  primitive  time  ?  Many  would 
give  this  answer,  and  yet  there  is  another:  that 
the  consecrated  religious  life,  formulated  and 
fixed  by  St.  Benedict  of  Nursia  in  the  sixth  cen- 
tury, was  so  formulated  and  fixed  for  all  time: 
that  he  himself  was  led  by  God  to  add  a  new 
power  to  the  Church,  necessary  then  and  for 
the  future  so  long  as  the  Church  Militant  should 
endure:  that  monasticism  recognizes  and  satis- 
fies an  indestructible  desire  in  the  human  soul, 

[273] 


CONCLUSION 

while  it  rounds  out  and  completes  the  mechanism 
of  the  Church  on  earth.  In  a  word :  monasticism 
is,  and  must  forever  remain, — transmuted,  mod- 
ified, reorganized  perhaps,  but  essentially  the 
same,  —  an  integral,  indestructible  portion  of 
the  visible  Church. 

This,  I  believe,  is  the  true  answer  to  the  ques- 
tion that  arises  when  we  are  confronted  by  the 
fact  that  monasticism  refuses  to  be  destroyed, 
and  invariably  enters  upon  a  new  lease  of  life 
when  failure,  persecution  and  popular  intellec- 
tual revolt  seem  finally  to  have  signed  its  death 
warrant. 

Nothing  is  harder  than  for  us  of  the  twentieth 
century  to  admit  the  truth  of  this;  for  almost 
exactly  four  hundred  years  those  who  have 
written  on  monasticism  have  been  divided  into 
two  classes,  they  whose  interest  demanded  that 
nothing  but  good  should  be  said  of  the  insti- 
tution, they  whose  interests  and  emoluments 
demanded  that  nothing  should  be  said  but  ill. 
With  but  few  exceptions  (the  late  John  Richard 
Green  being  the  most  honourable  of  all)  the 
historians  who  have  become  popular  both  in 
England  and  the  United  States,  and  who  have 
fixed  the  ideas  of  generation  after  generation, 
have  been  those  who  by  reason  of  their  mental 
temper  or  the  exigencies  of  their  maintenance, 

[274] 


CONCLUSION 

have  seen  fit  to  stigmatize  monasticism  in  the 
violent  terms  employed  by  Gibbon,  Froude, 
Milman,  Lecky,  Robertson,  d'Aubigne  and 
Voltaire.  Until  the  nineteenth  century  hardly 
a  voice,  save  those  of  continental  Roman  Cath- 
olics, was  raised  in  its  defence,  and  until  1850 
it  was  almost  impossible  to  find  in  England  or 
America  a  man  whose  ideas  on  the  subject  were 
not  such  as  might  have  been  inculcated  by  Fox's 
"Book  of  Martyrs."  For  twelve  generations 
we  had  been  taught  that  monasticism  "  measured 
virtue  by  the  quantity  of  outward  exercises  in- 
stead of  the  quality  of  the  inward  disposition, 
and  disseminated  self  righteousness  and  an 
anxious,  legal  and  mechanical  religion":*  that 
"a  dreary  sterile  torpor,  characterized  those 
ages  in  which  the  ascetic  principle  has  been 
supreme, "f  that  "  a  cruel,  unfeeling  temper  has 
distinguished  the  monks  of  every  age  and 
country;  their  stern  indifference,  which  is  sel- 
dom modified  by  personal  friendship,  is  in- 
flamed by  religious  hatred,  and  their  merciless 
zeal  has  strenuously  administered  the  holy  office 
of  the  Inquisition  "f  and  that  as  our  own  Bryant 
carelessly  wrote :  — 

*  Schaff :  "  History  of  the  Christian  Church." 

•j-  Lecky:  "  History  of  European  Morals." 

j  Gibbon:  "  Decline  and  Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire." 

[275] 


CONCLUSION 

"Where  pleasant  was  the  spot  for  man  to  dwell 

Amid  its  fair  broad  lands,  the  abbey  lay 
Sheltering  dark  orgies  it  were  shame  to  tell 

And  cowled  and  barefoot  beggars  swarmed  the  way." 

The  undoing  of  the  work  of  four  centuries 
has  been  a  heavy  task,  even  now  far  from  fin- 
ished. Little  by  little,  however,  the  towering 
structure  of  prejudice  has  been  undermined  as 
stone  by  stone  has  been  withdrawn  from  its 
foundations,  and  the  toppling  edifice  of  grotesque 
fiction  is  in  imminent  danger  of  final  collapse. 
A  subtle  effort  is  being  made  to  prop  it  up  again 
by  the  new  and  most  plausible  school  of  essayists 
who  deal  with  history  in  the  most  approved 
"modern"  way,  cementing  their  paradoxes  with 
"but  on  the  other  hand,"  "the  reverse,  however, 
is  equally  true,"  "nevertheless  we  must  not  for- 
get"; blocking  their  qualified  praise  with  un- 
qualified doubts,  and  with  the  semblance  of 
judicial  temper  casting  final  discredit  on  that 
which  they  seem  to  approve.  Let  me  quote  a 
good  example  of  this  able  and  essentially  modern 
method.  "  Monasticism  was  the  friend  and  the 
foe  of  true  religion.  It  was  the  inspiration  of 
virtue  and  the  encouragement  of  vice.  It  was 
the  friend  of  industry  and  the  promoter  of  idle- 
ness. It  was  the  preserver  of  education  and 
the  teacher  of  superstition.  It  was  the  disburser 

[276] 


CONCLUSION 

of  alms  and  a  many-handed  robber.  It  was  the 
friend  of  liberty  and  the  abettor  of  tyranny.  It 
was  the  champion  of  the  common  people  and 
the  defender  of  class  privileges."*  This  is,  of 
course,  in  the  end  as  complete  a  denunciation  of 
monasticism  as  the  rank  abuse  of  a  Gibbon  or 
a  Robertson,  but  it  will  never  do  to  let  the 
doctrines  of  Maitland,  Montalembert,  Cardinal 
Newman  and  Dr.  Gasquet  supersede  those 
fondly  held  for  so  many  generations,  nor  must 
the  facts  they  allege  be  permitted  to  speak  for 
themselves  or  without  a  judicious  commentary. 
No  disquieting  doubt  must  be  cast  upon  the 
fact  that  this  century  is  the  "heir  of  all  the  ages," 
infinitely  in  advance  of  those  that  saw  a  St. 
Benedict,  a  St.  Bernard,  a  St.  Francis,  a  St. 
Anselm  or  a  St.  Thomas  a  Becket.  One  thing 
we  must  hold  to,  and  that  is  that  "this  century 
is  nobler,  purer,  truer,  manlier  and  more  humane 
than  any  of  the  centuries  that  saw  the  greatest 
triumphs  of  the  monks.  .  .  .  Their  supersti- 
tions and  frauds  concealed  beneath  those  'dis- 
honoured arches'  were  infinitely  worse  than  the 
noise  of  machinery  weaving  garments  for  the 
poor  or  producing  household  comforts  to  in- 
crease the  happiness  of  the  humblest  man."f 

*  Wishart:  "  A  Short  History  of  Monks  and  Monasteries." 
•j-Wishart:  "A  Short  History  of  Monks  and  Monasteries. 

[277] 


CONCLUSION 

We  may  question  the  exactness  of  this  beautiful 
optimism,  particularly  in  the  year  of  Grace, 
1905,  surrounded  as  we  are  by  the  multitudinous 
revelations  of  private,  corporate  and  political 
corruption,  and  we  may  even  wonder  whether 
Pennsylvania  is  "nobler"  than  Yorkshire  at  the 
time  of  Archbishop  Turstan;  if  St.  Louis  and 
Minneapolis  are  "purer"  examples  of  govern- 
ment than  those  so  strongly  advanced  by  Stephen 
Langton,  Anselm  and  a  Becket;  if  Mr.  Dowie 
and  Mrs.  Eddy  are  "truer"  prophets  than  St. 
Thomas  Aquinas  and  St.  Gregory  the  Great;  if 
Standard  Oil  and  Amalgamated  Copper  and 
United  States  Steel  and  the  beef  trust  and  the 
sugar  trust  and  the  Equitable  are  "manlier  and 
more  humane"  than  was  the  discredited  epoch 
of  monasticism,  feudalism  and  the  mediaeval 
guilds.  And  as  for  superstitions  and  frauds, 
why,  they  are  deplorable  at  any  time,  no  less 
so  now  than  in  the  thirteenth  century,  and  there 
is  ground  for  believing  that  instances  may  be 
culled  from  the  history  of  certain  of  the  above 
named  monuments  of  contemporary  civilization 
that  might  perhaps  match  the  recorded  cases 
that  date  from  the  "  Dark  Ages." 

In  spite  of  the  energetic  efforts  of  the  able 
advocates  who  are  pleading  the  cause  of  the 
sixteenth  century  and  upholding  the  essential 

[278] 


CONCLUSION 

perfection  of  the  things  that  followed  in  its  wake, 
an  idea  has  gone  abroad  that  after  all  (to  con- 
fine ourselves  to  the  history  of  our  own  race  and 
Church)  no  boon,  however  great,  was  worth  the 
price  of  those  years  of  unspeakable  moral  de- 
basement that  intervened  between  the  death  of 
Sir  Thomas  More  and  the  accession  of  Elizabeth ; 
that  a  virus  then  entered  society  that  did  much 
to  counteract  the  wholesome  life  that  burst  out 
again  after  the  death  of  the  old  regime;  and  that 
the  source  of  our  disgrace  to-day  through  the 
loss  of  innate  moral  sense,  lies  far  back  in  the 
victory  of  the  Renaissance  over  Christianity,  and 
the  corruption  this  victory  wrought  in  Church 
and  State,  whereby  the  former  abandoned  her 
just  position  and  surrendered  to  the  new  power 
of  paganism  that  had  entered  the  world. 

There  is  a  true  and  a  false  medisevalism,  a 
true  and  a  false  Renaissance,  a  true  and  a  false 
Reformation.  It  is  necessary  that  we  should 
use  a  little  discrimination  in  dealing  with  these 
events,  and  the  concrete  ideas  for  which  they 
stand.  The  false  medisevalism  is  one  which  is 
very  largely  made  up  of  elements  and  ideas  that 
did  not  come  into  existence  until  the  Middle 
Ages  had  definitely  come  to  an  end.  The  utter 
moral  obliquity  of  the  race  during  the  malignant 
epoch  of  Edward  VI.,  the  same  obliquity  coupled 

[279] 


CONCLUSION 

with  savage  bloodthirstiness  under  Mary  I.,  the 
contemptuous  and  crushing  absolutism  of  Henry 
VIII.  and  his  royal  contemporaries  on  the  con- 
tinent, the  revolting  crimes  of  the  Borgia  Popes, 
the  awful  simony  and  degradation  of  the  episco- 
pate and  the  secular  clergy  during  the  fifteenth 
century,  all  these  things  are  postulated  of  me- 
dievalism; they  are  assumed  to  be  the  last 
evidences  of  baleful  influence  of  the  part  of  the 
spirit  of  the  Middle  Ages.  The  fact  is  exactly 
the  reverse;  they  were  the  work  of  the  Renais- 
sance, one  and  all,  and  in  them  medievalism 
had  no  part  whatever.  The  Renaissance  first 
debauched  the  world  it  had  come  to  destroy, 
then  assailed  it  for  the  very  faults  and  vices  it 
had  instilled  into  its  being. 

Nowhere  is  this  fundamental  misunderstand- 
ing more  manifest  than  in  the  current  conceptions 
of  the  historical  development  of  civil  govern- 
ment. Ask  the  average  man  what  form  of 
government  existed  in  Europe  between  the  years 
600  and  1600  and  he  will  reply  "Absolutism; 
the  unchallenged  tyranny  of  the  Crown  founded 
on  the  doctrine  of  the  Divine  right  of  kings." 
Yet  exactly  the  opposite  is  true.  Absolutism 
was  a  doctrine  of  the  Renaissance,  it  had  no 
existence  in  fact  until  the  mediaeval  spirit  had 
been  crushed;  it  could  not  exist  side  by  side 

[280] 


CONCLUSION 

with  monasticism  since  this  was  the  only  democ- 
racy the  world  has  ever  known  which  was  at  the 
same  time  a  pure  democracy  and  a  success. 
The  spirit  of  the  Renaissance  demoralized  the 
Church,  paralyzed  monasticism  by  the  deadly 
incubus  of  the  commende,  and  on  the  ruins  of 
the  sole  defence  of  the  people,  operative  for  a 
thousand  years,  it  reared  the  fabric  of  absolutism 
doomed  to  fall  and  disappear  in  a  sea  of  blood. 
So  long  as  monasticism  existed  as  the  most 
potent  executive  arm  of  the  Church  liberty, 
amazing  as  the  statement  may  sound,  was  an 
actual  fact.  "The  ancient  world  was  bristling 
with  liberty,  the  spirit  of  resistance,  the  senti- 
ment of  individual  right,  penetrated  it  entirely. 
.  .  .  That  freedom  had  established  everywhere 
a  system  of  counterpoise  and  restraint  which 
rendered  all  prolonged  despotism  absolutely  im- 
possible. .  .  .  Liberty  had  no  existence  then  in 
the  condition  of  a  theory  or  abstract  principle 
applied  to  the  general  mass  of  humanity,  to  all 
nations,  even  those  who  neither  desire  nor  know 
her.  But  freedom  was  a  fact  and  a  right  to 
many  men,  to  a  larger  number  than  possess  her 
now;  and  for  all  who  appreciated  and  wished 
for  her  was  much  more  easy  both  to  acquire  and 
to  preserve."* 

*  Montalembert:  "  The  Monks  of  the  West" 

[281] 


CONCLUSION 

The  misconception  on  this  point  is  funda- 
mental and  profound,  and  no  less  radical  are 
those  made  in  the  matter  of  mediaeval  learning, 
economics,  industrialism,  land  tenures,  rents, 
wages  and  personal  morals.  In  almost  every 
case  the  gross  evils  that  stained  the  sixteenth 
century  and  followed  instantly  on  the  suppres- 
sion or  debauching  of  the  monasteries,  are  ap- 
plied to  medievalism  itself  as  a  mark  of  its 
nature,  when  in  actual  fact  they  were  the  mani- 
festation of  the  triumph  of  a  power  against 
which  for  ten  centuries  medievalism  had  warred 
with  singular  success.  As  Montalembert  has 
said  so  well:  "It  is  important  to  free  the  true 
Middle  Ages  in  their  Catholic  splendour  from  all 
affinity  with  that  renewed  old  pagan  despotism 
which  still  here  and  there  contends  with  modern 
liberty.  .  .  .  An  attentive  study  of  facts  and 
institutions  will  convince  every  sincere  observer 
that  there  is  less  difference  between  the  order  of 
things  destroyed  in  1789  and  modern  society, 
than  between  the  Christianity  of  the  Middle 
Ages  and  the  ancien  regime" 

Similarly  is  it  very  desirable  that  we  should 
come  to  understand  that  the  Renaissance  is  not 
the  simple,  consistent  and  definite  movement, 
essentially  beneficent,  fixed  in  its  point  of  de- 
parture, unmixed  in  its  principles,  that  has  been 

[282] 


CONCLUSION 

held    up   for    our    admiration    by   masters   of 
redoubtable  eloquence. 

The  Renaissance  is  one  of  the  most  perfect 
examples  of  dualism  history  can  show:  "The 
Story  of  Dr.  Jekyll  and  Mr.  Hyde"  is  its  perfect 
symbol.  It  was  at  the  same  time,  as  I  have 
said  of  Cardinal  Wolsey  (no  bad  type  in  himself 
of  this  strange  epoch)  "beneficent  and  baleful." 
For  years  the  long  contest  continued,  the  fight 
for  final  mastery  between  good  and  evil,  and  in 
the  end  in  every  nation  the  evil  triumphed. 
The  good  reaches  back,  century  beyond  century, 
a  consistent  line  of  development,  even  to  the 
promulgation  of  the  Rule  of  St.  Benedict,  the 
evil  intrudes  itself  only  in  the  fifteenth  century, 
hatching  the  cockatrice  of  neo-paganism  from 
the  egg  of  Christian  civilization.  Dante  and 
Giotto  and  all  that  intervenes  between  them  and 
Pico  della  Mirandola  and  Botticelli,  are  in  Italy, 
the  manifestation  of  this  good  in  the  Renais- 
sance, they  are  the  splendid  flowering  of  mediae- 
valism  under  the  sun  of  a  renewed  classicism, 
but  simultaneously  a  baleful  planet  is  rising  in 
the  sky  to  scorch  them  into  extinction;  Medici 
tyrants  and  Borgia  Popes  burst  over  the  world 
to  blight  and  ban;  the  good  of  the  Renaissance 
withers  and  fades  away  and  in  its  place,  supreme 
and  terrible,  lifts  the  horror  of  a  new  paganism, 

[283] 


CONCLUSION 

empty  of  all  its  ancient  virtues,  a  malefic  miasma 
dooming  civilization  to  a  Gotterdammerung  of 
three  hopeless  centuries.  St.  Thomas  Aquinas 
has  given  place  to  Macchiavelli. 

With  the  martyrdom  of  Savonarola  the  victory 
of  the  powers  of  hell  was  assured  in  Italy.  The 
Concordat  of  1516  marked  the  final  end  of  the 
true  Renaissance  in  France.  The  acceptance 
of  Luther's  leadership  rather  than  that  of  Eras- 
mus, fixes  the  date  in  Germany,  and  in  England 
the  execution  of  Sir  Thomas  More  and  the  rise 
of  Cranmer  and  Crumwell  determines  a  similar 
period.  For  years  the  battle  of  Armageddon 
had  raged.  Stealthily  but  surely  the  powers  of 
evil  had  been  intruding  into  the  Church  and 
society  and  civil  government.  The  pagan  ren- 
aissance was  triumphing  over  the  Christian 
renaissance.  When  its  hold  on  the  Church  had 
become  final  and  complete  by  the  placing  of 
Alexander  VI.  in  the  Papal  chair,  the  doom  of 
Christian  civilization  was  sealed.  Like  a  cloud 
castle  the  mighty  fabric  of  the  Church  crumbled 
and  dissolved.  Pope,  cardinals,  bishops,  priests 
became,  not  agencies  of  righteousness  and  benefi- 
cence, but  engines  of  destruction.  From  the 
centre  of  all,  the  virus  of  the  pagan  renaissance 
flowed  at  last  into  the  veins  of  the  religious  life, 
the  commende  sapped  its  vitality  on  the  continent; 

[284] 


CONCLUSION 

profligate  tools  of  the  royal  despots,  now  firmly 
fixed  on  their  thrones,  spread  the  pestilence 
through  every  cloister,  professions  almost  ceased, 
the  faithful  died  broken-hearted  and  abandoned, 
and  the  great  guardian  of  true  religion,  monas- 
ticism,  ceased  to  exercise  its  function.  Of  course 
there  were  scores  of  houses  all  over  Europe 
where  righteousness  still  obtained.  England, 
spared  the  horror  of  commendatory  abbots,  re- 
tained a  monastic  organization  singularly  and 
unexpectedly  pure,  while  its  episcopate,  though 
suffering  grievously,  had  not  fallen  so  low  as 
was  the  case  across  the  Channel.  Nevertheless 
the  utter  demoralization  of  the  Church  conse- 
quent upon  the  triumph  of  the  pagan  renais- 
sance, was  breeding  revolt  and  revolution,  and 
we  may  easily  admit  that  it  is  little  wonder  this 
revolution  took  on  the  form  it  did  in  Germany 
and  the  North.  The  evils  of  the  sixteenth  cen- 
tury bred,  and  could  breed,  only  violent  rebellion 
wherever  the  soul  of  man  was  still  free  of  the 
mark  of  the  Beast.  The  Teutonic  and  Scandi- 
navian peoples  were  still  unslaved,  and  they  rose 
in  wrath  and  indignation,  while  their  roar  of 
revolt  was  echoed  in  France  and  Italy.  Rome, 
betrayed  to  the  Renaissance,  had  sowed  the 
wind.  The  whirlwind  that  was  reaped  was  the 
tempest,  not  of  a  recrudescent  Christian  renais- 

[285] 


CONCLUSION 

sance,  but  of  a  power  owing  its  nature  in  equal 
measure  to  the  very  spirit  that,  acting  in  another 
channel,  had  bred  the  foul  corruption  it  now 
burst  loose  to  destroy. 

The  revolt  against  Divine  law,  against  author- 
ity, tradition  and  implicit  faith  resulted  first 
of  all  in  breaking  down  the  moral  standards 
of  society,  state  and  Church  and  in  bringing  in 
the  horrors  of  the  pagan  renaissance,  but  it 
engendered  also  that  spirit  of  revolt,  destruction 
and  revolution,  that  equal  turning  against 
authority,  tradition  and  implicit  faith,  which 
gave  its  final  and  obvious  colour  to  the  righteous 
uprising  against  the  degraded  morals  that 
stained  the  Church  during  the  later  fifteenth 
century. 

Luther,  Calvin,  Cranmer  and  Knox  are  not 
the  heirs  of  the  Christian  renaissance  above 
whose  tomb  rose  not  as  a  cenotaph  but  as  the 
sign  of  insolent  triumph,  St.  Peter's  Church  in 
Rome;  the  nature  of  the  legitimate  heirs  we  can 
ascertain  from  the  group  in  England  that  went 
down  to  noble  defeat,  Archbishop  Warham,  Sir 
Thomas  More,  Bishop  Fisher,  Dean  Colet, 
Erasmus.  But  revolution  is  wrought  not  at  the 
hands  of  reformers,  but  at  those  of  destroyers. 
The  world  had  no  use  for  the  gentle  physician, 
it  howled  for  the  surgeon  with  his  knife. 

[286] 


CONCLUSION 

The  common  idea  of  the  events  we  are  con- 
sidering is  that  medievalism  proceeded  logically 
to  its  necessary  fall  in  the  gross  evils  of  Church 
and  state  in  the  sixteenth  century,  and  that  the 
Renaissance  came  as  a  purging  flame  to  purify 
a  world  defiled  by  the  principles  of  the  Middle 
Ages  prolonged  to  their  logical  conclusion.  I 
have  tried  to  show  above  that  another  solution 
is  possible,  viz.,  that  the  Renaissance  had  de- 
stroyed what  the  Renaissance  had  created,  after 
it  had  crushed  medievalism  and  established  in 
its  place  an  horrible  thing  that  had  no  kinship 
whatever  with  the  great  triumphs  of  civilization. 
In  other  words  that  the  Reformation  was  a  case 
of  internecine  warfare,  the  house  of  the  Renais- 
sance divided  against  itself,  not  the  battling  of 
the  Renaissance  against  medievalism. 

And  in  this  case  also,  the  case  of  the  Reforma- 
tion, is  there  not  a  chance  to  discriminate  between 
the  true  and  the  false?  No  one  could  possibly 
deny  that  the  Church  of  the  pagan  renaissance 
had  fallen  into  a  most  terrible  condition  of  im- 
potence and  corruption.  English  monasticism, 
stained  though  it  was  by  isolated  instances  of 
deep  disgrace,  as  in  the  case  of  St.  Alban's  in  the 
year  1489,  was  no  fair  criterion,  for  it  had  been 
miraculously  preserved  from  the  fate  of  the  con- 
tinental monasteries.  The  life  had  gone  out  of 

[287] 


CONCLUSION 

the  visible  Church,  and  in  place  thereof  was 
horror  almost  unlimited.  The  Reformation  could 
be  no  longer  delayed  if  even  the  last  elements 
of  Christian  society  were  to  be  preserved,  but 
"reformation"  could  come  only  from  the  expo- 
nents of  the  Christian  renaissance,  for  only  they 
were  competent  to  analyze  causes,  sift  the  wheat 
from  the  chaff  in  theological  dogma,  as  it  then 
stood,  destroy  the  accretions  of  formalism  and 
superstition,  while  preserving  intact  the  essen- 
tials of  the  Catholic  Faith.  The  moment  power 
of  action  was  placed  in  the  hands  of  the  opposite 
party,  the  party  of  crude  mentality,  of  harsh 
literalism,  of  Hebraism,  of  defiant  rebellion,  of 
destruction  for  the  mere  sake  of  destruction,  — 
albeit  the  party  of  righteous  rebellion  against 
corruption, — that  moment  the  revolution  began, 
and  when  it  was  finally  triumphant  the  world 
was  confronted  by  the  terrible  fact  that  the 
Renaissance  was  still  in  the  saddle  although 
the  forms,  the  principles,  the  manifestations 
were  changed,  all  but  one  which  still  endured 
unshaken,  savage  bloodthirstiness  and  inhuman 
cruelty,  far-reaching  and  fundamental,  that  had 
grown  to  an  awful  supremacy  under  the  influence 
of  the  Renaissance. 

The  true  reformation  lies  in  the  revolt  of  the 
soul  of  Europe  against  the  degraded  morals  of  a 

[288] 


CONCLUSION 

paganized  Church;  the  false  reformation  in  the 
assault  on  the  Church  as  well  as  on  its  paganism. 
In  England  there  had  been,  for  an  hundred 
years,  a  chafing  against  the  progressive  eccle- 
siastical corruption  so  manifestly  taking  place. 
Yet  it  was  almost  wholly  a  protest  against  bad 
morals.  No  one  took  any  particular  interest  in 
the  dogmatic  theorizing  of  Luther  and  Calvin. 
England  was  at  this  time  the  most  faithfully 
Catholic  of  the  nations  of  Europe;  what  she 
wanted  was  a  moral  reformation ;  she  cared  little 
for  a  revision  of  dogmas.  As  for  Henry  VIII., 
to  do  him  justice,  we  must  admit  he  hated  theo- 
logical innovations.  Luther  was  an  offence  to 
him  in  1540  precisely  as  he  was  in  1521,  when  he 
had  earned  the  title  of  "Defender  of  the  Faith" 
by  his  controversial  pamphlet  against  the  loud- 
mouthed monk.  So  far  as  the  Catholic  Faith 
was  concerned,  Henry  gave  it  a  formal  adherence 
to  the  day  of  his  death.  He  had  declared  the 
English  Church  independent  of  Rome,  for  rea- 
sons partly  domestic  and  partly  political,  and 
considering  the  condition  of  Rome  at  the  time, 
the  action  itself  was  unassailable.  He  had  ex- 
terminated monasticism  for  reasons  the  most 
base  and  scandalous,  but  though  he  was  himself 
the  incarnation  of  all  the  moral  evil  of  the 
Renaissance  and  though  we  can  therefore  look 

[289] 


CONCLUSION 

on  his  sturdy  defence  of  the  Catholic  Faith  in  its 
integrity,  as  evidence  of  nothing  but  an  intel- 
lectual appreciation  and  a  certain  lingering  good 
taste,  the  fact  remains  that  he  hated  Protestant- 
ism and  realized  that  the  people  hated  it  also. 
When  some  of  them  insisted  that  obedience  to 
Rome  was  a  prime  essential  of  Catholicity,  he 
showed  them  scant  mercy,  for  he  knew  other- 
wise. He  was  as  far  as  possible  from  being  a 
fool;  he  had  a  particularly  clear  vision  in  theo- 
logical matters,  but  he  inherited  in  some  way 
all  the  moral  turpitude  of  the  pagan  renaissance, 
he  surrounded  himself  from  choice  with  coun- 
cillors of  the  same  temper,  such  as  the  monstrous 
Crumwell,  and  he  was  determined  to  make  the 
Crown  an  absolute  despotism;  therefore  he  cut 
England  off  from  Rome,  and  he  extinguished 
without  mercy  the  soundest  and  most  beneficent 
institution  in  the  Church,  but  he  left  the  Faith 
itself  intact.  And  here  lay  one  secret  of  his 
success.  Had  he  tried  to  establish  Lutheranism 
in  England  he  would  have  been  confronted  by  a 
popular  uprising,  not  alone  in  Yorkshire  and 
the  North,  but  in  every  county  in  England,  and 
he  would  have  received  short  shift  indeed. 
Practically  the  whole  kingdom,  even  including 
the  monasteries,  accepted  the  break  with  Rome 
as  a  minor  matter  so  long  as  the  Catholic  Faith 

[290] 


CONCLUSION 

was  held  inviolate.  The  people  rose  indeed 
against  the  suppression,  but  not  because  therein 
lay  any  attack  on  Catholicity,  but  because  they 
looked  on  the  monks  and  friars  as  their  friends 
and  benefactors.  Bad  as  Henry  was,  it  can 
never  be  said  of  him  that  he  aimed  in  the  least 
at  a  substitution  of  Protestantism  for  Catholi- 
cism in  England. 

The  false  reformation  began  in  England  when 
with  Henry's  death  a  child  came  technically  to 
the  throne,  while  the  actual  power  passed  into 
the  hands  of  a  junta  of  unprincipled  conspirators. 
Crumwell  found  worthy  successors  in  Somerset 
and  Warwick.  Cranmer,  now  unchecked  in  his 
theological  tendencies,  gave  himself  heart  and 
soul  to  the  substitution  of  the  doctrines  of  Luther 
for  those  still  held  by  five-sixths  of  the  people. 
The  monasteries  were  gone,  and  with  them  the 
strongest  prop  of  the  ancient  faith.  The  wide- 
spread misery,  poverty,  and  actual  pauperism, 
their  destruction  had  entailed,  resulted  in  a  cur- 
rent dissatisfaction  and  a  smouldering  fury  that 
continually  found  vent  in  irreligion  and  a  rest- 
less reaching  out  for  something  new,  no  matter 
what,  so  only  it  was  new.  Six  hundred  families 
had  been  raised  to  affluence  and  power  on  the 
ruins  of  the  monasteries:  to  gain  this  reward 
they  had  become  conscienceless  sycophants,  to 

[291] 


CONCLUSION 

retain  it  it  was  necessary  that  they  should  pre- 
vent absolutely  a  return  to  the  Roman  obedience 
or  a  restoration  of  monasticism.  The  colleges, 
chapels,  free  chantries  and  hospitals  that  Henry 
had  not  yet  seized  were  taken  over  by  the  gov- 
ernment, while  the  great  guilds  were  shorn  of 
their  lands  and  estates.  Change  after  change 
was  made  in  doctrine  and  liturgy,  each  towards 
a  more  evident  Lutheranism.  Mendicancy  in- 
creased with  such  terrible  rapidity  that  slavery 
was  restored  and  held  for  two  years,  when  the 
infamous  statute  was  repealed.  Rebellions  broke 
out  in  Kent,  Cornwall  and  Norfolk,  and  were 
suppressed  by  the  aid  of  continental  mercenaries. 
The  king  showed  signs  of  coming  to  a  speedy 
end ;  as  matters  stood  Mary  would  succeed,  and 
as  she  had  announced  that  "Rather  than  use 
any  other  service  than  was  used  at  the  death  of 
the  late  King,"  her  father,  she  would  lay  her 
head  "on  a  block  and  suffer  death,"  it  became 
necessary  to  eliminate  her  from  the  situation. 
The  regent,  who  had  created  himself  Duke  of 
Northumberland,  with  the  assistance  of  Cran- 
mer,  therefore  prepared  an  ingenious  plot  to 
substitute  for  Mary,  Jane  Gray  the  wife  of  his 
son,  Guilford  Dudley,  and  to  seize  Mary  herself 
and  relegate  her  to  the  Tower.  Edward,  then 
on  his  death  bed,  fell  in  with  the  plan,  debarred 

[292] 


CONCLUSION 

both  Mary  and  Elizabeth  on  the  ground  of  ille- 
gitimacy, and  forthwith  died  —  not  without  some 
slight  assistance  from  Northumberland,  as  many 
have  believed. 

The  plot  failed;  Jane  Gray  was  proclaimed 
Queen,  but  England  rose  as  one  man  behind 
Mary,  and  she  entered  London  in  triumph  whilst 
Northumberland's  party  dissolved  into  thin  air. 
The  Renaissance  had  bred  a  savage  disregard 
of  human  life  and  Mary,  zealously  Catholic, 
backed  by  a  vast  majority  of  the  nation,  but 
meshed  in  plots  and  treasons  against  her  faith, 
her  crown  and  her  very  life,  plots  emanating 
from  the  group  of  reformers  she  had  inherited 
from  her  father  and  brother,  —  Mary,  gloomy, 
bigoted  and  merciless,  resumed  the  practices 
taught  her  by  her  ruthless  progenitor,  and  while 
restoring  the  old  faith,  to  the  joy  of  her  people, 
protected  it  against  heresy  and  treason  by 
methods  that  only  intensified  the  rage  of  the 
Protestant  party,  whilst  winning  to  it  great  num- 
bers of  those  who  revolted  from  blood  and 
persecution.  When  after  Mary's  short  and  un- 
happy reign,  Elizabeth  succeeded,  she  found 
herself  bound  by  every  policy  to  the  party  of  the 
reformers,  though  she  hated  their  theology  as 
bitterly  as  had  Henry  and  Mary.  The  King  of 
Navarre  thought  France  well  worth  a  mass,  and 

[293] 


CONCLUSION 

similarly  and  with  the  same  degree  of  conviction, 
Elizabeth  thought  a  mass  hardly  worth  England. 
The  stars  in  their  courses  fought  against  Mary, 
even  though  she  voiced  the  wish  of  her  whole 
people.  Everything  played  into  the  hands  of 
Elizabeth,  even  though  at  first  she  headed  a 
faction  only.  A  thorough  statesman,  a  master 
of  perfect  diplomacy,  a  marvellous  judge  of 
human  nature,  wise,  far-seeing,  troubled  by  no 
deep  religious  scruples,  Elizabeth  played  her 
cards  with  amazing  wisdom,  and  by  subtlety  and 
exquisite  cunning  transformed  England  from  a 
Catholic  to  a  Protestant  nation,  using  the  stake, 
the  block  and  the  dungeon  without  the  slightest 
remorse,  and  with  considerable  prodigality,  but 
veiling  her  executions  with  plausible  pretexts 
that  robbed  them  of  the  incentive  power  that 
obtained  in  the  case  of  her  grim  sister's  more 
frank  and  savage  employment  of  the  same 
expedients. 

The  suppression  of  the  monasteries,  chapels 
and  chantries  had  done  its  work;  religion, 
mercy  and  education  had  been  entirely  removed 
from  the  lives  of  tens  of  thousands  once  depend- 
ent upon  them  for  spiritual  leadership,  mental 
stimulus  and  material  benefit.  Henry  had  never 
intended  to  substitute  for  the  old  faith  the  new 
he  hated  so  cordially,  but  for  reasons  in  no  way 

[294] 


CONCLUSION 

connected  with  religion  he  had  destroyed  the 
one  force  that  could  have  held  England  to 
Catholicity. 

Here  then  we  see  the  bearing  of  this  rehearsal, 
of  history  on  the  question  as  to  whether  monas- 
ticism  was  a  passing  episode  or  is  an  essential 
and  indestructible  portion  of  organized  Chris- 
tianity. We  find  that  in  no  case  has  the  prim- 
itive Catholic  doctrine  been  superseded  by 
Protestant  dogma  and  the  Apostolic  polity  given 
place  to  the  reformed  system  of  voluntary  asso- 
ciation, except  where  monasticism  has  either 
been  prostituted  by  absolutism  and  vitiated  by 
the  commende,  or,  as  in  England,  wholly  eradi- 
cated ;  and  in  this  last  case  we  find  that  England 
even  while  in  the  clutch  of  a  tyrant  of  the  Ren- 
aissance, proved  a  bulwark  against  the  invasion 
of  German  heresies  until,  the  monasteries  sup- 
pressed, the  last  defence  was  gone. 

But  surely  we  may  see  more  than  this,  more 
that  bears  on  the  question  before  us,  in  the  story 
of  the  fall  of  monasticism.  To  do  so,  to  gain  a 
just  idea  of  the  real  causes  that  led  to  the  down- 
fall of  the  religious  life,  and  to  weigh  the  signifi- 
cance of  this  cataclysm  it  is  necessary  that  we 
should  discriminate  as  I  have  said,  between  the 
true  and  the  false  medievalism,  the  true  and  the 
false  renaissance,  the  true  and  the  false  refor- 

[295] 


CONCLUSION 

mation.  If  we  do  this,  it  will  become  evident, 
I  think,  that  the  condition  of  continental  monas- 
ticism  in  the  sixteenth  century  and  the  fact  of 
the  English  suppression  have  no  bearing  what- 
ever on  the  ultimate  question  of  the  nature  of 
the  monastic  idea  and  its  permanence  or  im- 
permanence.  We  shall  come  to  see  that  in  the 
real  medievalism,  lies  the  root  of  all  such  ele- 
ments of  true  civilization  we  now  possess  in 
common  with  the  great  ages  of  the  Christian 
past:  that  the  true  renaissance  was  but  a  vivid 
intensifying  of  mediaeval  ideals,  while  the  break- 
down of  moral  and  religious  standards  in  the 
sixteenth  century  with  all  it  meant  of  ruin  and 
disgrace  to  the  Church  and  righteous  civil 
society,  was  the  result  of  the  false  and  pagan 
theories  and  practices  of  the  victorious  element 
of  the  Renaissance.  And  finally  we  shall  realize 
that  monasticism  had  been  reduced  to  impotence 
by  the  same  Renaissance  (save  only  in  England) 
which  later  was  to  extend  its  malignant  control 
even  over  the  popular  revolt  its  own  enormities 
had  brought  into  being. 

There  is  nothing  in  the  history  of  monasticism 
from  the  sixth  to  the  sixteenth  centuries  that 
gives  any  excuse  for  condemning  it  as  false  in 
ideal  or  even  temporary  in  its  usefulness,  while 
its  subsequent  condition  proves  only  that  it  had 

[296] 


CONCLUSION 

gone  down  in  defeat  at  last  before  the  only 
power  that  had  ever  mastered  it,  the  irresistible 
force  of  the  human  mind  out  of  bondage  at  last 
to  the  controlling  spirit  of  Christ  through  His 
Church. 

If  we  put  this,  which  is  I  think  the  true,  con- 
struction, on  the  history  of  the  decline  and  fall 
of  monasticism,  we  shall  be  better  able  to  study 
its  real  nature,  unclouded  by  the  confusing 
issues  raised  by  those  who  are  driven  to  discredit 
monasticism  that  they  may  so  defend  the  events 
that  accompanied  and  followed  its  fall.  It  is 
far  from  being  the  ideal  state  of  man,  as  was 
held  by  its  earliest  apologists;  it  undoubtedly 
obtained  too  enormous  a  hold  on  the  human 
mind,  and  so  withdrew  from  secular  life  and 
domestic  relations,  many  of  the  best  type  of 
men,  whom  civil  society  could  ill  spare.  In  its 
earliest  state  it  fostered  an  unwholesome  intro- 
spection and  a  selfish  consideration  for  the  wel- 
fare of  the  individual  soul,  but  it  is  wrong  to 
postulate  these  evils  of  the  fully  developed  system 
when  altruism  had  taken  the  place  of  egotism  to 
a  most  unusual  degree.  It  was  never  exempt 
from  deterioration,  which  happened  constantly, 
but  a  retrograde  order  instantly  gave  place  to 
another  that  carried  on  the  work  without  loss 
of  momentum.  Of  human  organization,  and 

[297] 


CONCLUSION 

human  in  its  personnel,  its  failures  went  hand  in 
hand  with  its  triumphs,  but  unfaithfulness  in 
part  could  never  destroy  the  beneficence  of  the 
whole. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  catalogue  the  list  of  its 
benefactions,  for  the  debt  the  world  owes  to  the 
monks  is  admitted  now  by  every  one.  It  might 
have  been  the  greatest  benefactor  of  the  human 
race,  and  yet  remain  a  thing  of  temporary  value, 
but  it  seems  to  me  that  the  nature  of  the  work 
it  did  in  upholding  the  liberty  of  the  individual 
and  the  superiority  of  mind  and  soul  to  class 
distinctions;  in  converting  innumerable  tribes  of 
barbarians  and  transforming  them  into  great 
civilized  states;  in  defeating  every  tendency 
towards  tyranny  and  absolutism  for  a  thousand 
years;  in  organizing  and  protecting  and  insti- 
gating industry  and  agriculture;  in  founding 
schools  and  universities  and  peopling  them  with 
students;  in  cherishing  and  preserving  classical 
literature,  fostering  scientific  investigation,  de- 
veloping the  study  of  theology,  grammar  and 
literature;  in  actually  creating  the  greatest  archi- 
tecture, painting,  sculpture,  music  and  indus- 
trial arts  yet  produced  under  Christianity,  and 
in  establishing  a  system  of  mercy  and  charity 
hitherto  undreamed  of  in  Europe,  it  seems  to 
me,  I  say,  that  the  nature  of  this  vast  and  far- 

[298] 


CONCLUSION 

reaching  industry  argues  that  the  power  that 
brought  it  into  being  was  one  the  world  may 
still  find  useful. 

Monasticism  possesses  two  aspects,  the  passive 
and  the  active.  In  its  first  state,  as  it  was  con- 
ceived to  be  by  the  anchorites  and  hermits  from 
the  Thebaid  down  to  St.  Benedict,  it  was  a 
means  of  escape  from  a  social  condition  that 
made  spiritual  advancement  impossible.  The 
essential  idea  was  the  saving  of  the  individual 
soul  through  renunciation  and  through  with- 
drawal beyond  the  influences  of  death-dealing 
conditions.  This  was,  I  think,  St.  Benedict's 
original  and  perhaps  sole  idea,  the  establishing 
of  havens  of  refuge  in  the  midst  of  social  anarchy 
where  those  who  desired  might  find  and  follow 
the  teachings  of  Christ.  If  this  was  indeed  his 
single  aim  he  "  builded  better  than  he  knew,"  for 
his  will  was  overridden  by  the  Will  of  God,  and 
it  became  immediately  evident  that  by  Divine 
guidance  he  had  been  led  to  develop  an  institu- 
tion exquisitely  calculated  to  do  the  very  work 
throughout  the  world  the  times  then  demanded. 
Monasticism  forever  remained  a  sanctuary,  but 
its  glory  was  to  lie  in  its  active  function,  its  action 
as  a  great  and  perfectly  organized  society  for  the 
counteracting  of  pagan  tendencies,  the  resistance 
to  private  selfishness,  tyranny  and  crime,  the 

[299] 


CONCLUSION 

dissemination  of  religion,  learning  and  mercy, 
and  the  building  upon  earth  of  the  Kingdom  of 
God. 

At  the  same  time  it  exerted  two  influences  of 
very  diverse  nature:  it  fostered  self-respect,  de- 
fended the  sanctity  of  the  soul  and  taught  the 
higher  equality  that  lies  beyond  caste  and  social 
distinction,  but  it  was  as  well  truly  socialistic, 
teaching  the  deep  necessity  of  perfect  co-opera- 
tion, and  the  supreme  truth  that  the  whole  is 
immeasurably  greater  than  the  part,  exemply- 
fying  this  in  its  life  and  works  and  standing  as  a 
mighty  proof  of  the  power  that  lies  in  organized 
co-operation  when  ruled  by  rigid,  fixed  and 
immutable  law. 

In  both  these  respects  it  has  an  equal  work 
to  do  to-day.  If  we  look  below  the  show  of 
things  we  come  to  realize  that  existing  condi- 
tions have  much  in  common  with  those  that 
confronted  St.  Benedict.  Beneath  the  splendid 
phantasmagoria  of  the  twentieth  century  pageant 
of  material  glory  lies  a  festering  horror  of  eco- 
nomic evil,  of  social  corruption,  of  political 
baseness,  of  artistic  impotence  and  of  spiritual 
death,  and  below  this  again  as  its  primal  and 
continuing  cause  a  monstrous  individualism  ex- 
aggerated beyond  all  reason,  that  has  resulted 
in  an  ominous  downfall  of  religious  and  ethical 

[300] 


CONCLUSION 

standards.  "  St.  Benedict,"  says  Cardinal  New- 
man, "found  the  world,  physical  and  social,  in 
ruins,  and  his  mission  was  to  restore  it  in  the 
way  —  not  of  science,  but  of  nature;  not  as  if 
setting  about  to  do  it,  not  professing  to  do  it  by 
any  set  time,  or  by  any  series  of  strokes,  but  so 
quietly,  patiently,  gradually  that  often  till  the 
work  was  done  it  was  not  known  to  be  doing. 
It  was  a  restoration,  rather  than  a  visitation, 
correction  or  conversion." 

If  we  substitute  for  the  words  "physical  and 
social,"  the  words  "spiritual,  ethical  and  social," 
we  shall  have  a  good  description  of  the  world  in 
its  ruin  to-day,  and  one  may  be  justified  in 
believing  that  the  corrective  brought  into  being 
by  St.  Benedict,  under  God,  and  that  restored 
and  recreated  civilization,  may  still  retain  power 
to  operate  successfully  again.  Renunciation, 
consecration,  co-operation,  and  all  in  the  Name 
of  Christ  and  under  law  Divinely  ordained,  these 
are  the  foundation  stones  of  world  regeneration. 
Marriage,  individuality  and  personal  initiative 
are  sacred  things,  but  there  are  others  equally 
holy,  and  that  the  work  of  God  may  be  done  on 
earth  it  is  necessary  that  these  should  yield  to 
them  so  far  as  some  men  and  women  are  con- 
cerned. In  the  Providence  of  God  there  are 
always  those  who  can  make  a  sacrifice  of  certain 

[301] 


CONCLUSION 

joys  and  privileges  for  the  welfare  of  mankind, 
and  it  is  at  least  as  glorious  and  honourable 
when  these  give  their  lives  to  the  cloister  for 
faithful  labour  amongst  men,  as  it  is  when  they 
forget  wife  and  children  and  the  exercise  of  their 
individual  wills  to  lay  down  their  lives  on  the 
field  of  battle. 

And  also  there  are  those  who  by  their  native 
temper  are  unable  to  cope  with  the  world  in 
solitary  conflict:  who  after  such  unequal  war- 
fare, weary  and  disheartened,  feel  the  gnawing 
need  of  peace  and  rest:  who  are  ready  to  recog- 
nize the  honour  and  virtue  and  discipline  of 
obedience  as  of  personal  and  independent  action. 
And  there  are  women,  who,  lonely  and  un- 
guarded, look  in  vain  for  a  field  of  congenial 
action,  and  find  nothing  for  them  but  the  un- 
equal and  unwholesome  contention  with  men  in 
the  field  the  latter  have  made  their  own.  For  all 
these  society  and  civilization  have  provided  no 
refuge  other  than  that  of  the  consecrated  life. 

And  there  is  yet  another  and  even  more  prac- 
tical field  of  activity  in  which  a  revived  monas- 
ticism  would  offer  most  opportune  assistance. 
Exaggerated  denominationalism  has  bred  an  im- 
possible parochialism.  In  England  and  in  Amer- 
ica we  are  confronted  by  thousands  of  parish 
churches  and  mission  chapels  where  religious 

[302] 


CONCLUSION 

services  must  be  maintained,  since  they  are  set 
in  regions  which  cannot  be  deprived  of  the  offices 
of  a  Catholic  priesthood,  yet  cannot  in  spite  of 
every  effort,  support  in  simple  decency  a  married 
priest  and  his  family.  Agricultural  depression 
in  England  has  so  reduced  the  stipends  payable 
in  hundreds  of  livings  that  these  no  longer 
deserve  the  name,  and  can  only  be  accepted  by 
priests  of  independent  fortunes.  Ordinations 
are  falling  off,  religious  ministrations  are  becom- 
ing more  and  more  infrequent  in  many  sections, 
and  the  people  are  drifting  away  to  the  "tent 
meetings"  of  itinerant  evangelists  supported  by 
nonconformist  bodies.  Here  in  America  there 
are  vast  numbers  of  parishes  that  pay,  and  can 
pay,  only  a  very  few  hundred  dollars  a  year; 
many  a  married  priest  with  a  wife  and  children 
being  compelled  to  starve  along  as  best  he  can 
on  half  the  income  of  a  sober  brick-mason. 

No  one  will  deny  that  this  condition  of  things 
is  profoundly  shameful  if  not  actually  immoral. 
It  could  be  corrected  by  an  order  of  religious  in 
each  diocese,  living  under  the  threefold  rule, 
but  vowed  for  short  periods  only,  perhaps  for 
three  years,  the  vows  being  renewable  until  such 
time  as  the  oblate  found  himself  convinced  of 
his  vocation,  and  ready  to  take  life-vows.  Some 
approach  to  the  Augustinian  type  would  be  the 

[303] 


CONCLUSION 

best,  the  monks  or  canons  being  subject  to  the 
call  of  the  bishop  of  the  diocese  at  any  time  and 
for  any  work  he  might  specify.  With  such  an 
order  at  hand  no  parish  that  could  not  pay  a 
living  stipend  to  a  married  priest  should  be  per- 
mitted a  resident  rector.  It  should  be  served  on 
Sundays  and  Holydays  by  the  members  of  the 
order  acting,  so  soon  as  they  left  the  precincts 
of  the  monastery,  under  the  direction  of  the 
diocesan,  at  other  times  clergy  could  be  obtained 
from  the  monastery  for  all  works  of  council, 
admonition  and  mercy,  but  it  would  be  no  longer 
necessary  for  a  priest  to  impose  on  himself  and 
a  numerous  family  the  hardships  consequent  on 
a  cure  of  souls  that  counted  perhaps  a  score  of 
communicants  and  paid  seven  hundred  dollars  or 
less  for  his  ministrations. 

The  missionary  efficiency  of  such  "diocesan 
monasteries"  would  be  enormous.  What  could 
not  a  bishop  do  with,  say,  twenty  men,  all  with- 
out family  ties,  each  ready  to  go  forth  at  his 
call  transmitted  through  the  abbot  or  prior,  to 
do  such  work  as  was  laid  down  for  him,  yield- 
ing obedience  outside  the  cloister  to  the  bishop 
instead  of  the  superior.  The  possibilities  are 
startling  in  their  magnitude. 

With  a  system  of  three-year  vows  (at  least  for 
all  under  middle  age)  the  houses  of  such  an 

[304] 


CONCLUSION 

order  would  be  recruited  largely  from  amongst 
the  younger  men;  those  who  desired  a  deeper 
experience  than  could  be  obtained  through  cura- 
cies or  poverty  stricken  missions;  who  feeling  a 
call  to  the  religious  life,  could  not  answer  in- 
stantly and  finally  because  of  possible  filial 
duties  that  might  later  become  operative;  who 
because  of  youth  could  not  say  whether  or  no 
they  could  renounce  for  themselves  the  joys  of 
domestic  life.  Associated  with  them  would  be 
the  elders,  those  who,  left  alone  perhaps  by  the 
marriage  of  their  children  and  the  death  of  a 
wife,  found  themselves  hopeless  and  astray,  with 
no  call  coming  to  them  from  parishes  that  de- 
manded rather,  men  from  the  other  side  the 
"age  limit."  From  amongst  these  there  would 
always  be  a  good  number  convinced  of  their 
vocation  and  finally  bound  for  life- vows;  a  nu- 
cleus of  permanence  around  whom  would  gather 
and  dissolve  from  year  to  year,  the  body  of 
temporary  workers,  new  blood  coming  constantly 
into  the  organism,  stability  and  mutation  work- 
ing together  towards  the  best  and  most  vigor- 
ous life. 

"Such  an  order  would  be  widely  different  in 
its  nature  and  its  activities  to  the  traditional 
Benedictine,  Cistercian  or  Franciscan  of  his- 
tory"? Very  true,  but  different  in  accidents 

[305] 


CONCLUSION 

only,  not  in  the  underlying  principle,  and  the 
greatness  of  the  monastic  idea  lies  in  its  infinite 
adaptability  to  incessantly  changing  conditions. 
There  is  a  place  for  the  Benedictine  to-day,  for 
the  Cistercian,  the  Dominican,  perhaps  even  the 
Carthusian  and  the  Trappist,  but  the  demand 
for  these  comes  from  the  individual  soul.  The 
great  cry  of  the  world  that  goes  up  to-day 
"How  long,  O  Lord,  how  long?"  is  rather  for 
a  great  order  of  mission  priests  who  will  inci- 
dentally work  out  their  own  salvation  through 
their  consecrated  labour  in  wide  vineyards 
already  ripe  for  the  harvest. 

Monasticism  then,  was  neither  a  mediaeval 
superstition  nor  a  passing  expedient.  The  his- 
tory of  its  achievements  both  in  individual  char- 
acters and  in  the  development  of  civilization, 
leaves  no  alternative  but  the  conviction  that  it 
grew  under  the  fostering  Hand  of  God.  A  just 
estimate  of  medievalism,  of  the  Renaissance  and 
of  the  Reformation  shows  us  what  monasticism 
achieved  for  the  world,  how  it  perished,  not  of 
internal  disease  but  at  the  hands  of  the  crescent 
power  of  evil,  what  was  lost  when  it  fell  and  how 
humanity  has  suffered  during  the  period  of  its 
eclipse  and  extinction. 

We  have  studied  something  of  the  history  of 
monasticism  as  it  comes  before  us  in  the  vine- 

[306] 


CONCLUSION 

clad  vestiges  that  rise  like  the  shards  of  glory  in 
the  dim  valleys  and  on  the  windy  hills  of  Great 
Britain.  May  these  sorrowful  ruins  remain  to 
us  not  only  as  memorials  of  a  great  and  won- 
derful epoch  of  Christian  civilization,  but  as 
beacons  of  an  imminent  goal,  as  stars  of  evening 
that  sank  long  ago  in  the  west  only  to  rise  again 
as  dawn  stars,  heralding  the  coming  day. 


Eau0  Deo. 


[307] 


INDEX 


Abbeys,  Benedictine,  that  are  now 
cathedrals,  38,  39. 

Abbeys,  total  destruction  of  cer- 
tain, 39, 73. 

Abbey  estates,  fate  of  lay-holders 
of,  248. 

Absolutism  the  child  of  the 
Renaissance,  280. 

Aelred,  Abbot  of  Rievaulx,  153. 

St.  Aidan,  Bishop  of  Northum- 
bria,  31,  48,  49,  51,  54. 

St.  Alban's  Abbey,  17. 

St.  Aldhelm,  229,  234,  241. 

Alexander  I.,  King  of  Scots,  132, 
172,  184. 

Alexander  II.,  Pope,  115. 

Alexander  III.,  King  of  Scots,  139. 

Alexander  VI.,  Pope,  8,  284. 

Alexander,  Abbot  of  Kirkstall, 
192,  203. 

Amalarius,  Canon  of  Metz,  115. 

Ancrum  Moor,  battle  of,  190. 

Anne  of  Warwick,  82. 

Architecture,  Norman,  in  Eng- 
land, 53,  in  Scotland,  144,  148; 
Norman  transition  in  England, 
45,  46,  167,  242;  thirteenth  cen- 
tury in  England,  57,  58,  90, 
109,  159,  216,  226,  257,  in  Scot- 
land, 145,  187;  thirteenth  cen- 
tury transition  in  England,  97; 
fourteenth  century  in  England, 
121,  172,  175,  260;  Cistercian 
type  of,  78,  98,  197;  destruction 
of  mediaeval,  123;  French  in- 
fluence in  English,  167;  in  Scot- 


tish, 146,  177;  perfection  of 
Gothic,  121. 

Art,  mediaeval,  at  York,  214,  215; 
Puritan  hatred  of,  102;  works  of, 
destroyed  at  the  Suppression,  38. 

Arthur,  King,  29, 30. 

Arthur  and  Guinevere,  finding  of 
bodies  of,  33. 

Aske,  Robert,  10,  264;  betrayal  of, 
266;  murder  of,  268. 

Athelney  Abbey,  17. 

Athelstan,  King,  234,  241. 

St.  Augustine,  Archbishop  of  Can- 
terbury, 48. 

Augustinian  Order,  114,  116. 

Avalon,  Island  of,  28,  34. 

Avignon,  papal  exile  at,  7. 


IJ 


Bannockburn,  battle  of,  175. 
Bath  Abbey,  17. 
Beaton,   Cardinal,    139. 
Beaufort,  Duke  of,  96. 
Beaulieu  Abbey,  founding  of,  80, 

84;  destruction  of,  79. 
Beaulieu,  Lord  Montague  of,  79. 
a'Becket,  St.  Thomas,  Archbishop 

of  Canterbury,  112. 
Bede,  the  Venerable,  31. 
St.  Benedict,  64,  et  seq.  301;  Rule 

of,  67. 

Benedictine  Order,  63,  US. 
Bere,  Richard,  Abbot  of  Glaston- 

bury,  42. 

St.  Bernard  of  Clairvaux.  76,  451. 
de  Bienfaite,  Richard.  110. 


[309] 


INDEX 


Bigod,  Roger,  110;  Sir  Francis, 
267. 

"Bishops  of  the  New  Learning," 
popular  hatred  of  the,  263. 

"Black  Book,"  legend  of  the,  14. 

Black  Canons,  see  Augustinian 
Order. 

"Black  Death,"  the,  121. 

Boleyn,  Anne,  13. 

Bolton  Abbey,  founding  of,  127. 

Borgia  Popes,  the,  283. 

Bowes,  Sir  George,  189. 

"Boy  of  Egremond,  the,  127. 

Bradley,  Marmaduke,  pseudo- 
Abbot  of  Fountains,  261. 

Brithwald  II.,  Abbot  of  Malmes- 
bury,  241. 

Bruce,  King  Robert  the,  172. 

de  Brus,  Robert,  118. 

Buccleuch,  Duke  of,  182. 

Byland  Abbey,  founding  of,  165; 
destruction  of,  166. 


Caedmon,  56,  61. 

Calvin,   John,  286,  289. 

Cardinal's  College,  founding  of,  13. 

Carthusian  Priors,  fate  of  the,  10. 

St.  Catherine  of  Siena,  7. 

Celtic  Church,  49,  50. 

Charles  V.,  King  of  France,  8. 

Chaucer,   Geoffrey,   188. 

Cheshire  Rising,  the,  263. 

Chinnock,  John,  Abbot  of  Glas- 
tonbury,  42. 

Chrodegang,  Abp.  of  Metz,  115. 

Church,  State  of,  in  fifteenth  cen- 
tury, 7,  280;  First  Christian,  in 
Britain,  31 ;  influence  of  Renais- 
sance on,  287. 

Cisterican  Order,  74;  austerity  of, 
in  art,  74,  77,  78,  98;  the 
fosterer  of  English  nationality, 
111 ;  Abbey,  plan  of,  100, 104;  its 
influence  on  civilization,  114; 
Abbeys  of,  in  Yorkshire,  153; 
lapse  of,  168,  171;  architecture 


of,  197;  revival  of  religion  by, 
251. 

de  Claire,  Gilbert,  Earl  of  Glou- 
cester, 110;  Walter,  110. 

Clement  VII.,  Pope,  12. 

Coel,  King,  31. 

Colet,  Dean,  286. 

Colman,  Abbot  of  Lindisfarne, 
57,  61. 

St.  Columba,  50. 

"Commende,"  the,  135,  284,  295. 

"  Comperta, "  nature  of  the,  15. 

Concordat  of  1516,  284. 

Cranmer,  Thomas,  9,  284,  286, 
290. 

Crumwell,  Thomas,  8,  9,  11,  12, 
24,  44,  262,  284,  290. 

Crosland,  Col.,  156. 

St.   Cuthbert,   51. 


Danes,  invasion  of,  62. 

St.  David,  King  of  Scots,  133,  172. 

St.  David,  King  of  Wales,  31,  40. 

Dent,  William,  last  Abbot  of  York, 
228. 

Dissolution  by  attainder,  18. 

Doncaster,  Treaty  of,  265;  viola- 
tion of,  267. 

Dorchester  Abbey,  rehabilitation 
of,  231. 

Dornton,  John,  Abbot  of  Foun- 
tains, 259. 

Dorset,  Marquis  of,  82. 

Douglass,  the  Flower  of  Chivalry, 
184;  the  Good  Sir  James,  184; 
Sir  James,  184;  Sir  William,  of 
Lothian,  184;  William,  first 
Earl  of,  184;  Archibald,  Earl  of 
Angus,  189. 

de  Dreux,  Yolande,  134. 

Dryburgh,  founding  of,  187;  de- 
struction of,  189. 

Dudley,  Lord  Guilford,  292. 

Durandus,  master-mason  of  Rouen, 
80. 

St.  Dunstan,  29,  31. 


[310] 


INDEX 


£ 

Eadwine,  King,  48. 


Gisburgh,  founding  of,  118;  de 
struction  of,  118;  prosperity  of. 
124. 


Ealdwine,  Prior  of  Winchcumbe,      Glastonbury  Tor,   28. 


62. 

Ecgred,  Bishop,  132. 
Edgar,  King,  31. 
Edmund  the  Magnificent,  King, 

31. 
Edmund  Ironsides,  King,  31. 


Glastonbury,     founding    of,     30; 

desecration    of    ruins    of,    32; 

revenues  of,  35;  library  of,  35; 

destruction  of,  47. 
Godfrey   of   Jumieges,   Abbot   of 

Malmesbury,  242. 


St.  Edmundsbury  Abbey,  17,  73.      Gothic  architecture,  perfection  of, 


Edward  III.,  King,  37. 

Edward  VI.,  moral  degradation 
during  reign  of,  279,  291;  pau- 
perism under,  291 ;  doctrinal  rev- 
olution under,  292;  rebellions 
against  Protestantism  under, 
292. 

Elfleda,  Princess,  and  Abbess  of 
Whitby,  60,  61. 

Elizabeth,  Queen,  character  of, 
294;  doctrinal  revolution  under, 
294. 

Erasmus,   284,   286. 

Eure,  Sir  Ralph,  189,  190. 

Evesham  Abbey,  53,  73. 


Fitzherbert,  Archbishop  of  York, 
256 

FitzJohn,  Eustace,  255. 

Fisher,  Cardinal  Bishop  and  Mar- 
tyr, 8,  10,  286. 

Forman,  Andrew,  Commendator 
of  Dryburgh,  189. 

Frampton,  Robert,  last  Abbot  of 
Malmesbury,  245. 

Franciscan  Observants,  suppres- 
sion of,  13. 


G 


Geoffrey,  Abbot  of  York,  252. 
Gilbert  Strongbow,   110. 
St.   Gildas,   31. 

Giraldus    Cambrensis,    chronicle 
of,  33. 


121. 

Gray,  Lady  Jane,  292. 

Great  Schism,  the,  7. 

Grimstone,  Hugh,  Abbot  of  Kirk- 
stall,  204. 

Guinevere,  Queen,  29,  30. 

Gundreda,  the  Lady,  164. 


II 


Hageth,  Ralph,  Abbot  of  Kirk- 
stall,  203. 

"Heart  of  Bruce,"  the,  184. 

Helmsley  Castle,  155. 

Henry  of  Blois,  Abbot  of  Glaston- 
bury, 40. 

Henry  I.,  King,  153. 

Henry  III.,  King.  80,  85,  110. 

Henry  VIII.,  7,  9,  14.  17,  24,  and 
the  Northern  risings,  10;  his 
new  nobility,  1 1 ;  and  the  Com- 
mons, 15;  his  profits  from  the 
suppression,  21,  245;  his  motives 
for  the  suppression,  25;  and 
Dryburgh  Abbey,  189;  his  prom- 
ised new  sees,  244;  rebellions 
against,  263;  his  treachery  in  the 
North,  268;  his  hatred  of  Protea- 
tantism,  289;  his  character,  290. 

Hertford,  Earl  of,  87,  139,  147, 
150;  Hertford,  Marquis  of,  87. 

St.  Hilda,  60,  61. 

Holy  Grail  at  Glastonbury,  the,  30. 

Holy  Island,  sec  Undisfarne. 

"Holy  Matin  Club,"  15*. 

"Holy  Thorn"  of  Glastonbury, 
the,  30. 


[311] 


INDEX 


Holland,  Lady,  and  Netley  Abbey, 
89. 

Home,  Andrew,  Commendator  of 
Jedburgh,  187;  John,  Com- 
mendator of  Jedburgh, 137,  139. 

Huby,  Marmaduke,  Abbot  of 
Fountains,  259;  his  tower,  260. 

Hunter,  Abbot  of  Melrose,  180. 

Huntingdon,  Earl  of,  88. 

Hurst  Castle,  49. 


Ine,   King,    40. 
lona,  Monks  of,  51. 


James  III.  and  VIII.,  152. 

James  V.,  King  of  Scots,  155. 

Jedburgh,  founding  of,  133;  de- 
struction of,  141;  redemption  of, 
143. 

John,  King,  84. 

John  I.,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh,  134. 

John  II.,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh,  134. 

John  of  Kent,  Abbot  of  Fountains, 
256,  257. 

John  Pherd,  Abbot  of  Fountains, 
256. 

John  of  York,  Abbot  of  Fountains, 
256. 

St.  Joseph  of  Arimathea,  29,  30, 
34. 

Julius  II.,  Pope,  8. 

K 

Katharine,  divorce  of  Queen,  13. 

Kelso,  founding  of,  149;  siege  of, 
150;  destruction  of,  147,  150; 
proclamation  of  King  James  III. 
and  VIII.  at,  152. 

Kirkstall,  founding  of,  194;  a  vision 
of  restoration,  198;  nineteenth- 
century  project  for  restoration, 
200;  destruction  of,  202. 

Knox,  John,  286. 


De  Lacy,  Henry,  193. 

Lambert,  Abbot  of  Kirkstall,  203. 

Langton,  Archbishop,  110,  112. 

Layton,  Richard,  12, 14,  44. 

Layton,  Sir  Bryan,  189,  190. 

Leeds,  John,  last  Abbot  of  By- 
land,  169. 

Legh,  Thomas,  12,  117. 

Leo  X.,  Pope,  8. 

Libraries,  destruction  of  monastic, 
36,  120,  235. 

Lincolnshire  Rising,  the,  262,  263. 

Lindisfarne,  founding  of,  49;  de- 
struction of,  51,  52. 

London,  John,  12,  14. 

Lothian,  Marquess  of,  143. 

Louis  the  Pious,  Emperor,  115. 

Lucy,  Sir  Berkeley,  88. 

Luther,  Martin,  284,  286,  289. 

M 

Macchiavelli,  284. 

Maeldulph,  233. 

Malcom  Canmore,  King,  132. 

Margaret  of  Anjou,  82. 

Malmesbury,  contemporary  degra- 
dation of,  229;  founding  of,  234; 
destruction  of,  238;  misguided 
attempts  at  restoration,  239; 
grandeur  of,  243. 

Malmesbury,  William  of,  30,  37, 
234,  241. 

Malvern  Abbey,  17. 

Mary  I.,  Queen,  292,  293. 

St.  Mary's  Church,  Whitby,  56. 

Meaux  Abbey,  255. 

Medievalism,  true  and  false,  279; 
liberty  under,  281;  the  basis  of 
true  civilization,  296. 

Medici  tyrants,  the,  283. 

Melrose,  architecture  of,  173; 
under  Robert  the  Bruce,  179; 
destruction  of,  175. 

de  Meschines,  William,  127. 

Monasteries,  multitude  of  Eng- 
lish, 6;  suppression  of  the 


[312] 


INDEX 


smaller,  IS,  16;  financial  returns 
from  suppression  of  smaller, 
16,  17;  suppression  of  the 
greater,  19;  financial  returns 
from  suppression  of  the  greater, 
21;  papuerism  resulting  from 
suppression  of,  22;  guiding 
motives  behind  suppression  of, 
25;  nineteenth-century  suppres- 
sion of,  272. 

Monastic  libraries,  destruction  of, 
36,  120,  235. 

Monasticism,  its  influence  on 
civilization,  1,  247;  power  of 
English,  3;  dual  function  of,  4; 
the  question  of  morals  in  Eng- 
lish, 23;  fostering  of  trade  by, 
83;  debauching  of,  in  Scotland, 
138;  restoration  of,  in  English 
Church,  273;  historical  assail- 
ants of,  275;  destruction  of,  by 
civil  power,  285;  condition  of, 
in  England,  287;  the  bulwark 
against  heresy,  295;  benefits 
conferred  by,  298;  dual  aspect 
of,  299;  demand  for,  to-day, 
300,  301;  a  corrective  for  de- 
nominationalism,  302;  a  new 
mode  of,  303;  as  a  missionary 
agency,  304;  adaptability  of, 
305;  a  necessary  and  permanent 
agency,  306. 

Monington,  Walter,  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,  42. 

Monks,  as  landlords,  83,  and  san- 
itation, 84;  their  literary  indus- 
try, 120,  235. 

de  Montfort,  Simon,  110. 

Montague,  Baron,  of  Beaulieu,  79. 

Monte  Cassino,   66. 

Moon,  last  Prior  of  Bolton,  128. 

More,  Sir  Thomas,  Martyr,  8,  10, 
284,  286. 

de  Morville,  Hugo,  Lord  Lauder- 
dale,  187. 

Morvo,  John,  176, 177. 

de  Mowbray,  Roger,  162, 164, 166. 

Murdac,  Henry,  Abbot  of  Foun- 
tains, 256. 


N 

Navarre,  Henry,  King  of,  293. 

Netley,  founding  of,  85;  destruc- 
tion of,  88. 

Newminster  Abbey,  255. 

Nicholas  V.,  Pope,  8. 

Nicholas,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh,  134. 

St.  Norbert,   188. 

Norbertines,  see  Prsemonstraten- 
sians. 

Norfolk,  cruelty  of  Duke  of,  267. 

O 

Oliver,  Abbot  of  Dryburgh,  188. 
Osbert,  first  Abbot  of  Jedburgh, 

134. 

Osney  Abbey,  53,  73,  117. 
Oswald,  King  of  Northuinbria,  48, 

49,60. 

Oswin,  Monk  of  Jarrow,  62. 
Oswiu,  King,  60. 
Otho,  Duke  of  Burgundy,  74. 


St.  Patrick,  29,  30. 

Patrick,  Canon  of  Dryburgh,  139. 

St.    Paulinus,    48. 

Pembroke,  Earl  of,  106. 

Penda,  King  of  Mercia,  60. 

de  Perry,  William.  63;  Earl,  225. 

St.  Philip  the  Apostle,  and  Glas- 
tonbury, 30. 

Philip  the  Fair,  King  of  France,  7. 

Pilpnmage  of  Grace,  264,  888. 

Pius  II.,  Pope,  8. 

Praemonstratenaian  Order,  116, 
187. 

Presbyterianism  in  Scotland,  a 
side  light  on.  141,  189. 


11 


Ralph  of  Glastonbury,  41,  45,  123. 
Ralph  of  Strode,  188. 


[313] 


INDEX 


Ralph,  Abbot  of  Fountains,  256. 

Reformation,  true  and  false,  Z87, 
288. 

"  Reign  of  Terror,"  the  English,  9. 

Reinfred,  re-founder  of  Whitby,  62. 

Renaissance,  evil  influence  of, 
280,  283;  dual  nature  of,  283; 
triumph  of  pagan  over  Christian, 
R.  284;  the  breeder  of  license 
and  revolt,  286. 

Revolution  vs.  Reformation,  288. 

Richard,  Prior  of  York,  252. 

Rievaulx,  destruction  of,  157,  161; 
possible  redemption  of,  158. 

Ripley,  John,  last  Abbot  of  Bark- 
stall,  205. 

Ripon,  Marquis  of,  163,  249. 

St.  Robert  of  Molesme,  74,  251. 

Robert  III.,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh, 
134. 

Robert  IV.,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh, 
134. 

Robert  the  Bruce,  King,  177,  179. 

Romsey  Abbey,  sale  of,  17;  rehabil- 
itation of,  233. 


Salisbury  Cathedral,  57. 

Sanctuary,  privilege  of,  at  Beau- 
lieu,  82. 

"Sapphire  Shrine,"  the,  29,  40. 

Savonarola,  martyrdom  of,  284. 

Scott,  Michael,  184;  Sir  Walter, 
185;  Sir  W.  of  Buccleuch,  190. 

Scotus.     Duns,  234. 

Sculpture,  thirteenth  century,  in 
England,  217. 

Sedburgh,  Adam,  last  Abbot  of 
Jervaulx,  and  martyr,  268. 

Serlo  of  Kirkstall,  chronicle  of,  255. 

Seymour,  Edward,  87.    ^ 

Siegfried,  Abbot  of  Glastonbury, 
40. 

Sodbury,  Adam,  Abbot  of  Glaston- 
bury, 37. 

Sparke,  Thomas,  last  Abbot  of 
Lindisfarne,  52. 


Stained  glass,  first  mention  of,  in 

England,  101. 
Stephen,  King,  111. 
St.  Stephen  Harding,  75,  251. 
Streonshalh,  Synod  of,  57,  61. 
Stuart,   James,   Commendator  of 

Dryburgh,  189. 
Stuart,  Lady  Arabella,  87. 
Stumpe,  William,  237. 
Surrey,  Earl  of,  138. 


Taunton,  Walter,  Abbot  of  Glas- 
tonbury, 37. 

Taylor,  Master  Walter,  88. 

Tewkesbury  Abbey,   81. 

Theobald,   Archbishop,    112. 

St.  Thomas  Aquinas,  284. 

Thomas  II.,  Abbot  of  Jedburgh, 
134. 

Thirsk,  William,  last  Abbot  of 
Fountains,  and  martyr,  248,  261, 
268. 

Tintern,  founding  of,  110;  de- 
struction of,  96. 

Tironensian  Order,  149. 

Turgsius,  Abbot  of  Kirkstall,  203. 

Turold  of  Fecamp,  Abbot  of 
Malmesbury,  242. 

Turstan,  Archbishop  of  York,  118, 
154,  163,  252,  253. 

Turstan,  first  Norman  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,  40. 


de  Val,  Henry,  last  Abbot  of 
Whitby,  54,  70. 

Vestments,  mediaeval  ecclesiasti- 
cal, 37,  42. 

"Vestusta  Ecclesia, "  Glastonbury, 
40. 

"Visitors,"  character  of  Crum- 
well's,  14,  16. 


[314] 


INDEX 


W 


Walpole,  Sir  Horace,  86. 

Warbeck,   Perkin,   82. 

Warham,  Archbishop  of  Canter- 
bury, 286. 

Warwick,  Simon  of,  Abbot  of 
York,  226. 

Warwick,  Earl  of,  138;  John,  Earl 
of,  70. 

Wearyall  Hill,  30. 

Westminster  Abbey,  81. 

Whitby,  destruction  of,  54,  59; 
founding  of,  60;  revenues  of,  70. 

White  Canons,  tee  Praemonstra- 
tensians. 


Whiting,  Richard,  last  Abbot  of 
Glastonbury,  and  martyr,  43, 46. 

Wilfrid,  Archbishop,  of  York,  61. 

Winchester,  Marquis  of,  86. 

Winwaedfield,  battle  of,  60. 

Wolsey,  Cardinal,  10,  12. 

Worcester,  Earl  of,  96;  Marquis 
of,  109. 

Wych,  last  Abbot  of  Tintem,  96. 


York  Abbey,  destruction  of,  211; 
the  lime-kilns  of,  212;  mediaeval 
art  at,  216;  mediaeval  sculpture 
at,  217;  a  vision  of,  219  ct.  seq. 


[515] 


A     001  134  002 


